Once again, Ol’ Robbo has put off having his hair trimmed well past the point at which his friends would have advised him to take action.  I’m not exactly Spinal Tap yet, but I would say that I am fast moving into Shaggy territory.  (Did you know that his “real” name was supposed to be Norville Rogers, btw?  Zoinks!)

The problem is that I become increasingly enervated the longer my hair gets.  Hence, the more I put off getting it cut, the harder it becomes to summon the willpower to actually do the deed.

The flip side of this is that when I do finally get round to getting the thatch hacked, it is immensely refreshing and energizing.  Indeed, I call the process a Reverse Samson.  (Well, not when anyone’s around to hear me.)  So I am looking forward to this evening happily.

Another reason for the length of time between prunings is that I don’t go to the barber shop round the corner, but instead to a genuine salon in the mall.  And all that mood lighting, modron design, Euro-funk musick and anorexia doesn’t exactly come cheap.

As a matter of fact, the same gal has been weed-whacking my skull for well over ten years now.  I even followed her from her prior salon to this one.  Now you may snicker all you want.  The fact of the matter is that the gal knows what she’s doing.  Nobody else has ever been able to produce the same results on the Robbo cranium.  And buh-lieve me, it needs all the help it can get.

UPDATE:  Whoops.  Robbo is incapable of using the word “cranium” without  this tripping off in his head: