My freedom-spring had been compressed beyond working load, and for longer than rated in the specs.
Eventually the energy built up could no longer be contained by the retaining devices, and the back-fire resulted in a strong push of rapid forward motion.
Having watched the birds fly the skies surrounding from behind my aquarium windows, I knew of the possibilities afforded by open space and had built up the appetite to consume them.
One of the restrictions I immediately claimed independence from was the unspoken requirement to keep in check the inevitable expansion of my pilosity. I promised myself to no longer finance the industry that had been murdering our capillary offspring for millennia.
The decision was emotionally liberating and I enjoyed the attention that my growing mane magnetized. I progressively became acquainted with this unexpressed part of myself. I made efforts to master the art of caring for this natural extension of my identity.
I liked having long hair.
Liberated from the claustrophobic condition I had so long endured, I took full advantage of my physical range of motion. I traveled across oceans and continents. I scaled mountains and all available vertical planes. I renounced the luxuries of urban comfort to make room for the gifts of our mother nature. I invested my earnings and present moments into a different type of coziness and created a moving shell that could spark the jealousy of the likes of Honnold.
I cared little for the judgement I had previously internalized and slowly released my inner tensions: I learned to express myself without the taint of social moderation. I took risks with more bravado than ever before. I found and celebrated my Self.
As my affirmation elevated, my hair continued to grow. One millimeter at a time, it expanded and occupied more of my existence. Like a vine, it crept into the crevasses of my world and began to tug at the plumbing of my daily life.
When I leaned forward to retrieve a tool, it would blind my sight. When I drank from a fountain, it would follow the water into my mouth. When I closed my window on the highway it would get sucked into the vice of glass and rubber. When I would rappel down a cliff, it would find it\’s way into the inescapable gears of my safety device.
We began to fight, and no matter how much I tried to reason, it always ignored my pleas and put it\’s own freedom ahead of it\’s allegiance to our relationship. I soon resolved to regularly tying up the unwieldy beast. Though it had come from within me, it eventually felt like I was hosting an Alien.
In people\’s eyes, I could see that they were aware of my condition, and as though it were contagious, they began to distance themselves in subtle ways. \”Look at that – out of control!\” they whispered within their subconscious. I could sense the stigma and began to feel isolated. The smiles I once took for granted had disappeared from all but the most trusting faces. I had become that guy living on the fringe of acceptable.
—
I have no regrets for having lived this experience: neither the growth nor the cut.
It was a new friend who had the courage to suggest the cure to my ailment, and as soon as it was applied, I felt the results.
My alien has returned to his planet and I have returned to earth and to my human identity. My peers recognize themselves in me and the smiles and assumption of benevolence have returned.
This was my pony-tale.
Men, would you care to share yours?
