Reverse Samson
No, it's not some kind of weird sexual position. At least I don't think it is.
My hair is currently rather longer than I would normally wear it. OK, some people might argue about that, having seen me in my Alan Moore phase, but lately I've taken to letting the back of my neck see the sun occasionally. Right now that's not the case. My ears are nice and warm this winter, too.
It's easy enough to see how my tresses have come to this pass. The last time I went to the wig-scratchers was way back in May, and I didn't exactly have it taken back to the bone then.
Now normally this wouldn't be a problem. I don't tend to bother about my hair until it either gets too difficult to see through the front, or the back starts to resemble something that might be sported by a nineteen-eighties soft-rock guitarist. I tried to grow it long once, and that didn't work. It just got big. Now a trim every six months or so is ample.
But lately I've been feeling a bit run down, unfocussed, mentally weak. My current work in progress, The Book of Souls, is coming only in fits and starts. I'm having to refer to my notes more and more frequently, and when I don't the whole thing comes off the rails. Blog posting has become more sporadic, too. I can't think of anything to say, witty or otherwise. In short, I'm reduced to writing about my hair.
And that, I've come to the conclusion, is the dark root of the problem. My hair is too long, and like some backwards Samson, it's sapping my strength. I need to find a reverse Delilah to cut it all off for me.
Of course, there could be something other than coiffure weighing heavily on my mind right now, but my brain's too addled to think what.
My hair is currently rather longer than I would normally wear it. OK, some people might argue about that, having seen me in my Alan Moore phase, but lately I've taken to letting the back of my neck see the sun occasionally. Right now that's not the case. My ears are nice and warm this winter, too.
It's easy enough to see how my tresses have come to this pass. The last time I went to the wig-scratchers was way back in May, and I didn't exactly have it taken back to the bone then.
Now normally this wouldn't be a problem. I don't tend to bother about my hair until it either gets too difficult to see through the front, or the back starts to resemble something that might be sported by a nineteen-eighties soft-rock guitarist. I tried to grow it long once, and that didn't work. It just got big. Now a trim every six months or so is ample.
But lately I've been feeling a bit run down, unfocussed, mentally weak. My current work in progress, The Book of Souls, is coming only in fits and starts. I'm having to refer to my notes more and more frequently, and when I don't the whole thing comes off the rails. Blog posting has become more sporadic, too. I can't think of anything to say, witty or otherwise. In short, I'm reduced to writing about my hair.
And that, I've come to the conclusion, is the dark root of the problem. My hair is too long, and like some backwards Samson, it's sapping my strength. I need to find a reverse Delilah to cut it all off for me.
Of course, there could be something other than coiffure weighing heavily on my mind right now, but my brain's too addled to think what.
Comments
Hope the writing evens out soon. Nothing seems to work quite right when the writing is more challenging/slow/difficult than usual.