I lost six pounds…

Six pounds of hair that is. Yes, the rumor is true. I decided against all my heart, soul and plea from loved ones to shave my head. I did the deed earlier today. Time of death for my curly hair was approximately 4:03pm. Can you believe it? Me, the long curly haired boy, now have short hair. And I still look good. Damn, son. It’s great to be handsome.

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;

And by star-crossed lovers, of course, I am referring to my beautiful curly hair and sharp serrated scissors which took its life. I will attempt to recount, in vivid detail, the tragedy which became of me.

This misfortune fell upon me on a hot Tuesday, late-afternoon, while I was rummaging through the house cleaning out some desk drawers. I came to the bathroom, seeking the closest trash bin to discard some old papers, when I caught a glance of myself in the bathroom mirror. Although the light was unfavorable, I looked stunning by and large… if I can say so myself.

Towards the mirror I went, subconsciously, to get a closer look of my sexy ruggedness. I stood in front of the mirror, in a white wife-beater and soft Polo (c) pants (always stylin’ it even when bummin’ it). That’s when it happened — right then and there — I spotted what some may call the thread which unraveled an unhealthy obsession; I noticed a misplaced curl. Yes, it was just sitting there, hanging out and hanging on. Not only was this curl in the worst geographical region of my cranium, but alas, it also made way to wrap itself around and into my ear in an irritating and itching manner. It had to be killed. Offed. Executed. Finished. I had to kill that curl. It was now personal. I reached down for the second row drawer, where all my bathroom goodies are kept, including a pair of serrated-edge flaming vampiric dragon-slaying scissors (+2hit -3ac).

I reached down for the weapon, never moving an eye off the mirror, watching myself as though I was under citizen’s arrest. I latched my fat thumb up and under the scissors handle and slipped my thumb through the oval-shaped opening. Stabilizing my hand, I ensured I had a tight grip around the handle. I starred down my enemy curl. The curl starred back mockingly. It was infuriating. You know, that type of mockery you watch in Hollywood, where the villain glees, cackles and takes his sweet time explaining in detail his long-winded plan of world domination now that “our hero” is tied up and facing “imminent” death, all while giving “our hero” ample time to recover and/or escape to ultimately defeat the villain and his “flawless” plan. I fucking hate Hollywood. Why don’t you just kill the bastard the first chance you get, asshole?! HUH?!

Anyway, there we were, the curl and I in what I like to misnome as the battle of the century. A hush fell over make-believe audience as we danced with our eyes, each waiting to see who makes the first move. Considering the curl really, can’t do much, since it’s just a piece of fucking hair, I charged it with my weapon wielded in my off-hand (-3dam). SNIP! SNIP! And the hair fell down. BANG! BANG! And he shot me down.

KABOOM, I mouthed with my best Stereo MC voice, as the dark black curl hit the cold white counter top. I was victorious. May it be in the battlefield, on the race track, or in my case, in the bathroom; victory is glorious. Let me reiterate: victory is fucking glorious. With a fresh taste of confidence, among other things, in my mouth, I decided to examine the rest of my melon-shaped head for any other disobeying curls.

This was my downfall. Similar to other greats such as Caesar, Hamlet and Stalin, I let hubris get in the way. A SNIP! here and a SNIP! there, I was just snipping away like a madman in the bathroom with scissors and a lot of time on his hands. Actually, it was nothing like that. It WAS that. Although, all things considered in my defense, it did occur to me that this may not be a smart idea — snipping away at my own hair without any professional training or bet-money on the line. However, like most sound advice I get, I disregarded it completely.

The final result was manageable, surprisingly. I examined the aftermath repeating “it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad.” Enter: hair products. And a lot of it. I started to gel and spray my hair like there was no tomorrow. I was able to manipulate the uneven, misaligned hair in such a way that it looked relatively normale. You know, these days, people have such crazy hair styles, I assure you had I left it the way it was — it would be a fad come October. No doubt, I felt like quite the retard. I left the bathroom sweat drenched but relieved that this horror was to end.

Unfortunately, it was self-evident that I needed to, somehow, have all my hair “the same length” again. Specifically because I am not the type to wake up an hour early, simply to endorse a half-dozen hair products… which was approximately the extend of the damage. Cut to Yesterday.

I stood again in front of the ill-fated mirror ready for the second showdown. This time however, I was prepared and had brought along my guns. I was ready for battle. The cool crisp air of the bathroom under the blistering rays of the florescent lights made it the picturesque showdown location. The Western music hailed in the background as I exercised my spirit fingers in anticipation. I could handle it no longer, the sweat drop of fear was dripping down my brown face, momentarily to collide with my left eyebrow. I took one keen look, sized up my opponent, and as though in a Kubrik-style of classical explosion I charged my head with the trimmers (Set on Clip #4).

The melancholy of it all settled in once I stood before several pounds of my own black hair. The entire ordeal had been traumatic, but necessary. I stood there dumbfounded on how I was going to explain this rather pitiful event to my friends, girlfriend and random strangers whom eyed me keenly. And this entry, ladies and gentlemen, was the answer.

Well, now you know.

Adieu. Navid.