(Kruiser’s Permanote Description: This column is intended to be a lighthearted, short-form way to frequently connect with our cherished VIP readers. Sometimes it will be serious. Sometimes it will be fun. Sometimes it will be a cornucopia of intellectual curiosities and fascinations. OK, maybe not so much the last one. Anyway, as this is a departure for me, I’m including this explanation at the top of each post for a while. Also, non-subscribers can see the first couple of paragraphs so I am in desperate need of filler until we get to the private stuff (subscribe here). Please remember that there is a standing invitation to ask me anything in the comments. Once a week, I’ll answer.)
WHERE’S THE SHOWER?!?!?
I may have written about this before. If I have, my apologies. Also, consider this a cry for help.
There was a time in my life when I prided myself on my appearance. It was mostly vanity, yes, but I have also spent most of my career on stage or on camera. I figured that if the public had to look at me, I should probably make the experience as pleasant as possible. While it’s true that most people are drawn to me for my brains and wit, there was a long time when I presented a fair amount of eye candy for those with exquisite taste.
These days, if I were a foot taller people would be reporting Big Foot sightings in the Sonoran Desert.
A lot of us let ourselves go during the worst of the Bat Flu Lockdown crap (at least that’s what I’m telling myself). Maybe not right away. There was all of that pressure to look good for Zoom happy hours at the beginning, after all.
I went next level with all of it and seemed to have broken up with personal hygiene along the way. I live in a very small house and it was as if I’d forgotten which room had the shower in it. Then the cat would start looking at me funny and I’d head off to find it. When I did make my way there, I blanked on the fact that I own a razor and a variety of beard trimming tools. I’d look in the mirror, Sasquatch would look back, and there would be no recognition in my brain that that was me.
Inexplicably, I’ve been going for long periods of time between haircuts. We’ve been open here for a while, so lockdowns haven’t been an excuse since last summer. I look better in short hair. When my hair gets longer I’m two elbow patches on a sport coat away from looking like a pervy professor at the University of Arizona. (I just did some research and found that I wrote something similar in January but this is a better version of that line so I’m leaving it in.)
I get my hair cut at a barber school less than two blocks away from me. Haircuts are five bucks. I can afford to get my hair and beard trimmed there every week. They do a good job, too.
Instead, I’m over here getting shaggy and looking like I’m about to hold office hours for the coeds.
All of this might not be as shameful if I were one of those COVID panic people who still stays home all of the time. I’ve been out socializing in public six out of the last seven weekends, however. And I have to be on camera once a week for the VIP Gold live chat I do with VodkaPundit and Bryan Preston. Sure, my lighting is low and the regulars who watch are forgiving, but it’s all going to be on the internet for a long time.
WHERE HAS MY VAIN PRIDE GONE?!?!?!?
I’m trying to get it back.
I showered today. I trimmed my goatee, which had begun to look like a brown shrubbery that was taking over my face. I even remembered where the razor was and shaved.
On Friday, I’ll get my first haircut since January.
Die, Sasquatch, die.
If I write another one of these in four or five months please send someone to do an intervention.
One more prolonged hirsute period and I’ll be writing a manifesto.