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If you get drunk enough, you can dare yourself to do anything ridiculous.

Basically, I had to choose between paying for a real haircut or buying a large bottle of vodka. No contest. Pinnacle vodka was on sale, they say it comes from France, so my addiction won.

Yesterday was a “normal” day for me. I started drinking vodka and orange juice around 10 am, switched to straight vodka by noon, and just drank the rest of the day. After doing some online work in the early evening I made some sauce for my homemade pizza, sauteed some onions, pepper, and fake vegan meat, then watched a show on local PBS that featured a concert from my adopted hometown of Vienna.

The drinking continued.

Somewhere along the way I decided to seriously consider shaving my head. I didn’t want to be completely bald, but pretty much down to stubble. I watched some Peter Gabriel YouTube videos and decided that if he looked OK, I would, too.

I went into the bathroom with a pair of scissors and lopped off most of my hair, then finished the job (so I thought) with a pair of beard clippers.

There was lots of hair in the sink, on my back, on the floor. I tried to clean up the best that I could, but refused to look at myself in the mirror. I went back into the living room and turned on a movie called “Yes Men.” I must have passed out because I do not remember anything of the movie. When I woke up I was watching a Seth Green movie and it was 12:30 am the next day. Where did the time go??? I was upset that I never cooked my pizza, so I went to the kitchen, fixed it up and had two slices at 1:30 am. I took a trazadone so I could fall asleep, let Chance out to pee, cleaned up the kitchen, then went to bed. I think it was 2:00 am.

This morning I saw what a terrible job I did shaving my head. It looked like the SS was prepping me for the gas chamber.

I had a few drinks and then went back to the bathroom to re-do my head. It’s still not perfect and reminds me of a radiation patient losing his hair. But there is progress. And I decided that it does not really matter how awful it looks. It’s not like I am dating or in a relationship or even close to one. Chance knows me by my smell and my voice and not how I look.

So who cares?