Ever since I played the Witcher 3, I’ve wanted to have Geralt of Rivia hair: white, shoulder-length, in a half-ponytail. After consulting with various hair stylists and many different salons in the Philippines, I found out that it would be very difficult to turn my hair as white as Geralt’s. It would require bleaching at least three times, which may turn my jet black hair into maybe some variant of blonde. Oh well, at least shoulder-length in a half-pony is still achievable. With this objective in mind, I began intentionally letting my hair grow-out around November of last year.
What does this have to do with birthdays? Whose birthday? Was there really a birthday? I promise it’s coming. Just read on.
Geralt of Rivia
The process of letting my hair grow was actually excruciating. To give you some perspective, my hair started out quite short. Every time I tried to let my hair grow out, I encounter a very awkward stage where my hair does not quite know where it should go. It develops weird (for me) waves and curls that I find quite annoying. It doesn’t grow like Matt Mercer’s. His hair is neat, falls to the sides of his face, does not seem to get in his eyes.
Matt Mercer – The Ultimate Dungeon Master
Not my hair. Once it gets past a certain length, every time I look in the mirror it seems to scream “Fuck you, cut me or I’ll cut you”. Looking at it again, I can very well call it my Donald Trump stage. Don’t believe me? Just watch.
Hair so bad, even the camera loses some pixels
I would usually give in and just get a haircut, but not this time. This time I vowed to be the victor. The night is darkest before the dawn. After a couple of weeks waiting – the last half day of which was spent in a salon getting my hair relaxed – my hair finally started falling in a not so hideous way. Turns out all you really need is patience, and a shit-ton of caustic chemicals. Even so, this only helped a little. I still had to be the ugly duckling. And you know what happens to the ugly duckling? That’s right. After taking in all the insults, ridicule, and harsh treatment – especially by the pretty bitch ducklings -the ugly duckling emerges as a
beautiful swan badass Witcher who fucks all the bitches and then fucking murders everyone.
About three months of growth
As you can imagine, if I found my hair unattractive, others did too. One of the biggest opponents of me letting my hair grow long is my mom. She has two things at the top of her agenda, two questions she always asks:
- When are you going to give us some grandchildren?
- When are you going to have a haircut?
The answer to both questions depend on my wife as well. I very well can’t have a baby on my own, and I told her only my wife can ask me to cut my hair if she doesn’t like it. It’s quite hard to get my wife’s input given she was already in Hamburg at that point. Didn’t stop my mom from asking these questions every time we saw each other though – which was every week.
[PRO PARENTING TIP] To all you parents who have kids who are moving out of the house. If you still want to see them regularly, have them pick-up and deliver their laundry at your house. It guarantees a weekly visit, unless your kids want to go side-a/side-b with their underwear.
Anyway, I finally get to Hamburg after months of being apart from my wife. I was of course very happy to be reunited with her, and she felt the same. I asked her if she liked my hair, and she said “it’s fine, but I like your short hair better”. Ok… not the answer I was hoping for but still better than what my mom said. Literally, the first message my mom sent my wife upon learning we were together was:
How do you like his hair? It’s hideous, right?
Seriously mom? Not “how are you?”, or “we already miss you both”? Anyway, at least I didn’t get the cease and desist order from the commander and I could still grow-out my hair.
It wasn’t all doom and gloom, though. On my second day here, we went grocery shopping at a nearby supermarket. A dude there complimented my hair, and said he was also trying to grow his out. After meeting a couple of my wife’s officemates, she told me that they apparently had conversations about how beautiful my hair was.
They don’t really matter, though. The only opinion that matters to me is my wife’s, given that I actively try to get in her pants on a regular basis. I often ask her if she likes my hair, and her answer is always the same: “it’s fine, but I like your short hair better”.
After a couple of months, she began asking me if I liked my hair. While she never came out and said it, I think my long hair was getting less and less fine, and her preference for my short hair was growing more and more.
Fast-forward to her birthday (at last, the birthday part). I had no idea what to give her, and being unemployed, had not a lot of funds to work with. I really wanted to give her something special, though, and I remembered a cute story I encountered in college: The Gift of the Magi.
Turns out, getting a haircut in a place where you barely speak the language can be quite a harrowing experience, but it seems to have turned out well. I’ll write about it later.
I went to have lunch with my wife, as I normally do. I wore a hoodie and kept the hood up to keep it a surprise. She took a big sigh of relief when she finally saw my hair, which was probably the only proper way to respond. I mean, imagine what would have happened if she suddenly said “looking at it, I think I like your long hair better”.
Cheers to you, my love. Hope you really enjoy this version of my hair, because it’s going to take the better part of a year and another Donald Trump stage if you suddenly change your mind. I love you.