I got back and I had to do it: cutting my hair all the way down to pure baldness. As much as I had never grown my hair, as long as I had, on my head and on my face, it was time to cut back and expose my scalp to the sun. Of course, it was a bit daring to take the clippers and shave each layer down. But, the drinks helped to laugh it off, and the fun began to create expressions, which I had to capture before it was all gone.
This ‘edventure’ is more personal than any geographical experience. There are lots of changes occurring that have made the cutting of my hair a little more symbolic than just a notion to go to SuperCuts and get a trim. As I count them…my thoughts fill my mind like stars in the opulent night. For a start, my kids draw a major constellation; then, my family, friends, work associates, and neighbors. All of these people surround me, shining their light, as we travel together making a difference for a change.
Ya know, to ‘make the cut’ is not just one deciding-factor. I believe there is a turning-point in moving to the New London, CT area from South Portland, Maine. As I mentioned, my kids are the big factor, but the promising relevance having Eugene O’Neill’s spirit, like a fog, in the area, is a foghorn calling in the distant gray. A new chapter has turned. After the writing-workshop “On Golden Pond”, with Ernest Thompson, crewing for his new movie, Heavenly Angle, and acting in the movie, I felt it complete with my “work” this summer. Now, I can fall back to the basics of Americana and feel the bare necessities of writing, acting and directing within O’Neill’s backyard, while playing alongside my two dogs and my kids, Taylor & Masen.
I was at the bank today and I was asked, while making a withdrawal, “What did you do to your hair?” Immediately, I am at a loss; my hair is obviously cut off. (Duh.) I did found myself thrown, for a moment, behind my eyes of consciousness, to ancient stories, like Sampson. Or,.. instead was I some profile-thug? Then, I realized, it’s just… hair, right?
My baldness shines before me. What’s this new image? There’s power with no hair. How it fits on my head, like a, hapless, hatless feeling, is unconditional. There’s nothing (as my hands runs through, front to back, on my head) to declare. All I know is newness surrounds me: my head is numb, my head scratches my pillow like velcro, and I’m reminded of Telly Salvalas or (bald) Bruce Willis.
But the fun was when I cut my hair. The pictures tell the rest of the story: my face still stands.