When pulled taut, the longest bits of my hair stretched about eight inches. I figure, if your hair grows about half an inch per month, the oldest parts of my top were a year and four months.
The past 16 months were eventful. Lou Reed died. 'Selfie' is in the dictionary. Lance Armstrong got busted. You can print your own, fully-functional gun online. The pope resigned. The new pope seems great. Edward Snowden. There was an Egyptian military coup. Putin spent over $50 billion to make snow and annexed Crimea.
I had spent the better part of 2013 months ghostwriting a memoir for a professional athlete. At some point the relationship went sour and I was told that I would no longer be a part of the project, thereby losing the remaining $40,000 of the contract; this, after I had just turned in a manuscript of 85,000 words.
By April of 2014, I decided to move out of my Bed-Stuy apartment. I figured I could use a break from the black hole of ironic self-importance that is Brooklyn, and, as the saying goes, the best part about living in New York is leaving it. Without a home, my intent is to travel the world to meet strangers and learn the minds of many distant men and women. I've never been one to enjoy the prix fixe tourist experience that most foreign adventures provide. Instead, I will gain entry to people and places by playing pickup and document the people on the courts and the periphery of basketball.
But first, I'd have to remove that part of myself that I carried with me. I decided to chop off my hair before my great basketball odyssey...