The Q&A for the ASMS report required a video. I submitted mine on the 15th, and after that my hair turned into a low-level anxiety. Barbershops were still closed, and I had not had a haircut since February. Being stuck at home during the pandemic had not taught me many skills, but my hair had clearly used the time well. After hesitating for a moment, I ordered a hair clipper. It was just a haircut. Could it really be harder than tying a necktie?
When it arrived, I skipped the manual, assembled it after a few tries, and started. My plan was modest: thin the sides and back, shorten the top. Before beginning, I ordered takeout as a celebration, because a rising Tony was about to be born. I checked the time before placing the order: two hours. That seemed more than enough to cut, wash, and dry. It turned out to be very enough.
Longest guard first. Two passes and not much came off, so I switched to a shorter one. One push and the left side felt cool; another push and the right side was flat. This was not hard, I thought. I could probably do it blind, without glasses.
That is usually how a disaster starts: before I can walk, I want to run. The sides felt short, so I pushed upward. With glasses back on, my head looked as if a board had slapped each side. I fixed the right side. Now there was one board on the left and one on the right, with the middle like a mohawk—except it was clipped, not styled. I had wanted the front short. One pass went too high; another made me look Khitan; another gave me straight bangs; another took them away. I kept repeating the cycle: push, put on glasses, feel an inner stampede of camels, take off glasses, push again. The plan degraded from thinning to a crew cut, from a crew cut to a buzz, and from a buzz to a prison cut. Heaven help me, but at least it was realistic.
It took two hours. The rising Tony became a meteor. My hair was first smashed into patches, then flattened into a layer of fuzz. It did not delay the takeout; with no hair left, my head dried especially fast. Real Tonys, I suppose, rely on skill to sell membership cards.
If I had aimed for the prison cut from the start, five minutes would have been enough. I used far more time for the same result. All roads lead to prison. As for the meeting that started it all, I should have planned to wear a hat from the beginning. The result would have been the same.
The world always seems to find a way to move toward the shape you least want to see. Caught inside it, you and I often have no strength to fight back and are pushed onto one crest after another. Much of the good in the past came from mutual tolerance and cooperation, not because things were supposed to be that way. Cooperation means seeking common ground, preserving differences, and letting each side get what it needs. It does not mean accusation and hostility. Grand principles stuffed with private motives and a hunger for scapegoats only produce a lose-lose outcome. Going from thrift to luxury is easy; going back is hard. No current institutional design can satisfy everyone at all times. More often, it mismatches resources, time, and space so that most people are more or less okay most of the time. But some people will be unhappy at some times, and some people never want to lose at any time. If handled badly, this can and will slide toward everyone being unhappy most of the time. What we have seen before we may see again, but it cannot be pushed forward by one side alone. Sincere communication and understanding are the key.
After all, the only inherently correct hairstyle is bald. Summer really is cooler without hair.