If I was ever worried about my lack of maturity, I can cease worrying. I’ve turned into my own mother. Metaphorically of course, because if I’d somehow switched physical gender and time travelled back to have sex with my father… well I think I would’ve led with that. My physical gender and temporal fixture remain unchanged, but I’ve reached a plateau that I never thought possible. For the first time, I recognised when I needed a shave and a haircut.
I’d forgive you all for not reeling back in astonishment, but for me this was kind of a big deal. My face had become bushy, unkempt, scruffy. I had no logical reason for growing so much face foliage, but a combination of laziness and nobody to rub faces with didn’t give me a heap of reasons not to either. Still, the realisation that I looked eerily Amish gave me cause to bring in some facial deforestation. Also I started getting irrationally angry with technology. I think I just looked hobo-ish in general, food got stuck in it and at times I found myself thinking someone had put hair in my meals, but I was actually just chewing on my moustache. Out came the beard trimmer and I mowed away. Things look better now, some older Russian lady in the work kitchen this morning told me I was handsome. If that didn’t justify it, I don’t know what would.
As for the crop top Lego man haircut? Well it’s cold. I need the extra layer, like a natural toque woven with my own tufts. When the ice melts, who knows what I’ll do? I know I don’t really suit longer hair after a certain length and I’d look more employed with something shorter, styled. The problem that arises is my disinterest in putting any effort into this mess on my head. Whatever I wake up with, that’s my look for the day. Do they have things similar to a perm, but it just keeps a certain hairstyle 24/7? Like a hair helmet? A hairmet? Maybe I can actually get a Lego man kind of clip on dome. I just don’t want to have to think about it. I’ve got more important things to focus on, like how to switch gender and time travel for kicks, giggles and messing with the spacetime continuum.
How far does this new-found maternal responsibility extend? Will I look in the freezer only to find stacks of carefully proportioned meals? Make my bed daily? Keep a continuous cycle of washed and dried clothing? Change my sheets once a week? Brush my teeth twice a day while flossing regularly? Oh shit son, I already mostly do those things. IT HAS BEGUN. If I actually find a hairstyle that works, will it lock in maturity to a level I can’t quite handle? I remember freaking out when I was given an adult watch. It wasn’t me, I wasn’t ready to stop being a kid. As soon as I got a watch, then I’d get a leather wallet, fancy pens, a wife, mortgage, kids and haemorrhoids. Who in their right mind sought to give me that kind of commitment? Thing is, those things have started happening gradually as a natural progression. I stopped liking the look of my tattered 8 year old Ripcurl wallet. The thought of commitment freaked me out a little bit less. I started seeing traits I liked in children, how their minds developed and retained information. I ceased seeing the point of opposing growth and instead learned to define the things that made me happy, irrespective of my age. So no, I’m not becoming my mother. But I think as time goes by, I’m learning to become someone who would feel okay about helping a kid of my own to develop perspective. A thought that brings comfort, rather than fear.
When it comes to hair though, they’re on their own.