Vox Hunt: This Is DIY

With the brief exception of the six months I was travelling in Asia, and two ill-advised haircuts on Haight Street, I have been cutting my own hair ever since my grandmother died in 2001.

I had flown from my home in San Francisco to Montgomery, where I grew up as a kid, to try to see her one last time before she died. This was on September 10. The next day the whole word went to hell. She died a few days after that, and I wasn't prepared for a funeral. I had an old suit in the closet at my mother's house. I got a pair of shoes at the Pay Less in Batesville, Mississippi, and some clippers at the Wal-Mart, so I wouldn't look like a complete jerk at her funeral.

I have cut my own hair ever since. I've gone from straight-up #2 buzz cut to mohawk*, to  the buzz again, to Morrissey-esque, multi-layered, mane maven. Every time I cut it, I feel totally punk. I feel independent. I can't explain that, but I do.

I like to think that she would be proud.




*NOTE: Mo. Not Faux. Several Years ago. Prior to current, or recent, fauxhawk foolishness. Thank you.