I’ve never been someone who could cut my own hair. I know a lot of people who do. My own girlfriend has the cajones to pony up to the mirror, scissors in hand, nonchalant determination on her face.

Snip snip snip.

I hear it from the other room and I know what’s going on.

Snippity snip.

I think of the $45 I just spend to get my hair cut, but how hers always seems to look better than mine any way.

Snip clip snip.

I think of the people I knew in college. Cosmetologists and hair stylists, all perfectly willing to cut my hair in cool ways for a trade or a party invite or a handshake. Those were the days.

Snip snip.

I picture the little clumps of dark brown hair piling up in the sink.

Snip.

I think again of shaving my head. Making it easy on myself. It would be the economical thing to do.

Snip snip snip snip snip snip snip snip snip….

And as she cuts and cuts and cuts all through the night I realize that I likely will never have the courage to climb that mountain myself. Instead I remain atop a small hill, forking out half a C-note for others to climb it for me.