Journal Entry 26: Trim Eulogy

I just cut my hair. It’s a bit traumatic, as far as these things go. I hadn’t cut my hair since before I left for South Africa over 18 months ago. Achieving a “pony sprout”, as my friends rightfully teased, was my bold Peace Corps experiment. While most people didn’t like the longer hair (I can probably count the heretics on my hand) I did.

I learned a lot from the experiment. Like, I’m going bald. Oh yes, it’s on its way. It’s kind of like finding your self in a horror film or train wreck; captivating, to be sure, but wishing you weren’t the one with such a good view. I also learned that long hair is work; Lord knows it’s not for the betterment of society.

If you’ll allow me to wax nostalgic for a moment, I can’t but help to think about all the memories that are impressed within my fallen follicles.

They were with me in San Francisco: Staying up to watch John Stewart with my brother and Aaron; sweaty soccer games at USF with my friends; dancing with Dan and Dana in smoky nightclubs; and the salty air that blew through my hair as I cycled across the mist-laden Golden Gate bridge on my new Litespeed. …How I miss my old new Litespeed.

They were with me when I flew back across the United States. When I stopped off in Indiana to visit my sister in her new home, and in Westport, Connecticut to see my parents in their old home before they sold it later that year.

During our staging in Philadelphia when I met all the volunteers for the first time; when we took the bus ride up the New Jersey Turnpike to JFK; and when we boarded South African Airlines to fly to Joburg. It was an 18-hour ride with a stop off in Dakar, Senegal to refuel. I’d never been to Dakar before.

They were there during pre-service training - which seemed to last forever; as I gained my bearings at my site; everyday I went to school - when I was getting through to the teachers and when I wasn’t; and to the soccer field when 50 kids show up and when there were only 3. They even remember that rainy day the kids came to the soccer field anyways to slip and slide and chase a soccer ball through the red Venda mud.

They remember when my father made his first trip to sub-Saharan Africa; twice when I went back to the States for my sister’s and my best friend’s wedding; and when Jonathan and Tracy stopped by on their honeymoon tour of the world.

My hair was a good metaphor for my time in the Peace Corps: It had it’s good days and it’s bad days, was constantly changing, and grew much slower than I would have preferred.

But, at the end of the day… it’s is just hair. And it’s hotter ‘n hell here. So to everyone with long hair, more power to you. That’s one experiment - to the applause of many and the sorrow of a few tender souls - I’m about ready to check off the list.