You have the right to cut your hair.

There is something about police officers and me: they tend to shoot me angry or suspicious glances whenever I pass by or look at them, even when I say hello to them. They've even followed me as I walked around before, apparently suspcious that someone could enjoy walking around downtown by themselves. (Walking for air, walking to see?) Sometimes I scratch me head and wonder why exactly this seems to happen to me so often. Then I keep scratching my head, feel around a bit, and realize that I have long hair and a beard. Oh, right.


Most recently this happened in an airport restaurant. Two policemen were sitting at a table as we passed by. They smiled at my dad and then, I swear, suddenly turned angry when I and my brother, a fellow long-haired satan-worshipping rebellious evil democratic tree-hugger, looked at them. They probably thought we were terrorists. An understandable mistake; after all, my beard often tells me telepathically to go set fire to retirement homes and orphanages.

This even spills into meeting new people: I can't tell you how many times people have told me they've seen me skateboarding around town before. For the record, the last time I got on a skateboard I slid down a driveway hill and nearly ruptured my spleen. I have trouble balancing on a staircase, let alone a wooden deathtrap. (After the driveway incident, the police would find me an hour later and proceed to stare angrily at me.)

Of course, this begs the question: why do I keep my hair this way if I get such reactions...? I'll tell you why: because it's there.

Well, no, not really. I suppose it's some mix of personal expression, wanting to break some stereotypes, and the fact that my bowl cut many years ago was laughably bad (quite literally). Plus, I can act like the girl from The Ring, be emo on command, and keep warm during winter because of the giant mass of hair equivalent to having a fairly large ferret sitting on my head.