Deontological ethics..... or cutting hair. Whichever.
What diner do you go to, you guys... Invite me along?
It was the first time I had had my hair cut in probably about 10 years. It was the first time ever that I was deciding when and how to get my hair cut instead of my parents deciding for me.
I was so scared.
My friends told me to just do it, if I didn't like it, it would grow back.
It's just hair. That's what hair does. And then I could always change it again.
With a step in either direction, I was always so broken and horrible.
It still took me almost 2 years to cut my hair.
2 years. To cut hair.
The categorical imperative! My ever-pressing, ever-perpetuating flaw.
Once it's done, I'm always happy.
It's the anticipation and that 'what ifs' that kill me.
And something as versatile as hair. 2. YEARS.
Imagine the tumultuous internal debate over something more permanent.
You don't even want to know.
I wonder/am pretty sure/am definitely sure that a lot of it stems from
always being told the decisions I made were wrong, ever since I could remember.
My decisions were always wrong, be it a toy I wanted or a food preference, hair cut or identity crisis.
If I could, I would break each of my fingers
manually
before each joint
by myself
if it meant I wouldn't have to deal with making the decision I'm currently almost done making.
A normal guy would jump at the opportunity.
I'm just glad all my metacarpals are still intact.
...
Man.
What wouldn't I pay for a slice of conviction with a side of cherry pie.
I'll pay tip,
I promise.
It was the first time I had had my hair cut in probably about 10 years. It was the first time ever that I was deciding when and how to get my hair cut instead of my parents deciding for me.
I was so scared.
My friends told me to just do it, if I didn't like it, it would grow back.
It's just hair. That's what hair does. And then I could always change it again.
With a step in either direction, I was always so broken and horrible.
It still took me almost 2 years to cut my hair.
2 years. To cut hair.
The categorical imperative! My ever-pressing, ever-perpetuating flaw.
Once it's done, I'm always happy.
It's the anticipation and that 'what ifs' that kill me.
And something as versatile as hair. 2. YEARS.
Imagine the tumultuous internal debate over something more permanent.
You don't even want to know.
I wonder/am pretty sure/am definitely sure that a lot of it stems from
always being told the decisions I made were wrong, ever since I could remember.
My decisions were always wrong, be it a toy I wanted or a food preference, hair cut or identity crisis.
If I could, I would break each of my fingers
manually
before each joint
by myself
if it meant I wouldn't have to deal with making the decision I'm currently almost done making.
A normal guy would jump at the opportunity.
I'm just glad all my metacarpals are still intact.
...
Man.
What wouldn't I pay for a slice of conviction with a side of cherry pie.
I'll pay tip,
I promise.