So, after my haircut this morning (thank you, Billy Baldwin), I was thinking. This is often a problem for me, but it seems to happen no matter what. Anyway, I was thinking. About the freshly shorn hair I callously left on the floor of the barbershop to be swept into the trash with the rest of the garbage (and other hair, too, I suppose). Those hairs were a part of me. They grew their little hair hearts out. It's not their fault that they didn't know that I prefer them short. And so they did the only thing they knew to do: grow. And grow they did. No hair grew better (and if there's hair claiming it can grow better, how would it know? how could some hair have the audacity to stand up and make such wild, and probably fraudulent, claims?). They grew like it was going out of style. Poor hairs. I cut them, stepped on them, and left them there to stick to somebody's shoe and find their way to some freshly-vacuumed carpet.