The hair has grown back, but the self estem is another story.

You see it all started when my court appointed psychologist recommended I get out and become a productive part of society by becoming gainfully employed. He said it would improve my shattered self-esteem and take my "lifestyle burden" off of the shoulders of American taxpayers. Unfortunately, my parole officer agreed and they recommended that I cut my haggard beard and pony tail and try to present myself as a respectable "completely reformed" citizen.

So I set off to clean up my act in the thriftiest way I knew how, by begging. I fashioned my "need haircut" sign out of the best malt liquor box I could find near my residence for the evening and headed off to the nearest busy intersection. Looking back I might have worded my calling card a little differently as the reaction I received wasn't quite what I expected. You see in my line of work the most convenient means of procuring goods and services is to obtain currency rather than good will. I may ask for a job, but deep down what we really want is cash. I expected little handouts here and there but I received something a little different.

The first person who noticed my sign stopped and began to ask me just how I planned on "earning" my haircut. In fact, he asked a lot of questions, like was I good with controlled substances, just how much "stuff" I could carry at one time, if I could use a pistol in a pinch and whether or not I knew how to identify the authorities from a distance. Being a man of reduced liberties, firearms are something my parole officer warned me to stay away from. So I thanked the kind stranger for his interest, but declined his charity and he went on his way.

The second person who displayed interest in my predicament pulled to my side of the road on a tricked out Vespa; stopped and introduced himself as Perry. He was about 4'-8" tall and spoke in a high voice with a southern accent. The part I found most interesting about Perry was his attire. He wore a red scarf, western denim shirt and black leather chaps (no pants). After circling me a few times in an intense stare, he told me he would be happy to get me all lathered up and that the shave and haircut would be his “delight”. That all sounded good until he began to rub his hands through my hair and repeat over and over “yeah, this feels so right”. I began to feel a little uncomfortable and so I thanked Perry for his offer and he left in a huff.

At this point, my spirits began to sag and I began to wonder if compassion had completely gone out of style like my braided locks. Just when I couldn’t have gotten any lower, a brightly decorated van pulled over and out popped 8 slender men in orange robes with shaved heads. A beacon of light in the midst of utter darkness. I thought to myself, these guys look like they know their way around a razor... so off we went to their compound in the happy van. The haircut was the first matter of business, but these guys insisted I discard my clothes and adopt their fashion. After I put on the new digs, we had lunch. The food was great but those people really know how to chant… wow I was beginning to wonder if we would ever get around to eating. Time and time again I explained that I do not play the tambourine, but again this group was persistent. After lunch we all joined hands for meditation and they would just not take no for an answer. It was then that I began to wonder just how long this “haircut” was going to last as they did not seem interested in returning me to my temporary domicile. In fact, the more I asked, the more irritated they became so after the dancing and chanting the sun went down and I bolted. I thumbed my way back to civilization as quick as I could.

Now I am not one to complain, they say everything happens for a reason. The cut was a little closer than I would have liked and the 30 mile hike was more than I expected, but I have this awesome new robe and I have learned a little bit more about my tolerance for succumbing to social norms.…