It’s my personal opinion (and Susan Sontag’s, too, I think) that homos have pinned their hopes for mainstream acceptance on two things: 1) being different (e.g. Ms. Aviance), and 2) possessing impeccable taste (South Beach not included). In the end, however, it seems there are certain inalienable traits we faggotinis share with our breeder brethren–notably the absurd lengths we’ll someties go to maintain an aura of self-sufficiency. Case in point: as Jonno can testify, if I’m lost on the higway, I ain’t about to stop for directions. Directions are for pussies. Right?
Luckily for those around me, I’ve gradually given up my aspirations to complete self-sufficiency. I no longer fantasize about fixing my own car with rubber bands and a wad of chewing gum on the side of a desolate highway just north of Bumfuck, Egypt. Nor do I believe I can rewire our new house on my own. In fact, I’m gonna pay someone good money so I can sit there and watch. (It is June and all. I might suddenly be called down to the pool). There is one thing, though, that I’m pretty picky about: I insist on cutting my own hair.
Now, okay, before really special occasions, I’ll swing by the barber shop (no hairdresser salons for me) for a little hot lather on the back of my neck, but by and large, I think a guy ought to be able to cut his own hair. So I do. And Jonno usually laughs at me, until he realizes he’s gonna be the one who has to come into the bathroom and fix it. It’s kinda like smoking: I’m not sure why I do it, ’cause it’s kinda ridiculous, but, you know, it feels good. The vibrations on my occipital. The sound of a #3 guard chopping through inch-long hair. The look of the hair falling on the porcelain of the bathtub. Little pleasures.
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