Friday, May 22, 2015

2015 Birthday - Part 8: Purple

I was going to combine my posts about the hair color and pasta class, but then I realized something.
I'm 45.  That's half of 90.  I'm a tenth of 450!  I'm the square root of 2025!

INSERT OBVIOUS ARTHUR C. CLARKE JOKE
I'm older than dirt (judging from the contents of my composting bin).  It's funny, when the year begins, I consider myself whatever age I'm going to turn that year.  This year, I considered myself 44 until... Well, I still consider myself 44.

So, I'm stretching these posts out another two weeks.  You're not a year older until you've finished blogging about your birthday.  This week is hair.  Next week is pasta.  The week after that is about what I didn't accomplish.  I'll keep going on this theme for the rest of my life.
Matthew Kagle: Born 90 years ago.  Dead at 45.
So, let's talk about my head.

Every year I dye my hair a weird color.  I started with blue but was put off by all the attention I got.  The next year I didn't color my hair, and was put off by all the attention I didn't get.  Next year I did yellow, which just involved a gallon of bleach and an hour of screaming.  Then came green, which became a disappointing, light teal color.  Then orange, which became a disappointing natural color.

Actual quote: "My grandmother asked who the guy with the lovely auburn hair was."

This year is purple.
As always, my hairdresser is more photogenic than me.

Nice color, but it's leaking out.  I had to buy purple pillowcases.  My fingers are purple from where I scratched my head.
Does some awesome things in the morning, though.
I'm going through the rainbow, so I have four more colors left.  You'll have to guess which.

I've been thinking about why I color my hair, why I was disappointed the year I didn't color.  Last night it hit me (along with my son, need to work on his anger).  When my hair is a funny color, people look at me.

It's like being famous.

People smile.  Kids whisper to their parents.  I get approached by people who ask questions about it.  Every now and then, my agent drags me to rehab.

It's a good feeling.  I can see why so many people are addicted to fame.  When I finally run out of colors, I'll crash and burn.  Drinking.  Arrests.  Ex-wives on talk shows talking about my sexual proclivities.  Reality shows.  On Ellen to talk about my fall from fame.  Endorsing cheap haircare products.


Man, I can not wait!

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