Observations about Hair and Beards

I am never one to do things in order- so when I got my new license in the mail today and looked at myself in the mirror I mused whether I had some unknown writer’s affliction.

Back up two weeks-

I looked at my license- it expired two months ago on my birthday. How could I have forgotten, it was on my birthday. My big 4-0. I had not forgotten, I had procrastinated. I would have moments of clarity during my writing sessions in which I thought- you know I should really get my licensed renewed. The next thought- I have a deadline tomorrow on chapter 3. The license went to the “not as important as writing” file.

So two weeks ago- I had a free afternoon. At least I made it a free afternoon. I got ready and looked in the mirror. Sasquatch was looking back. Hair 2 months overdue for a haircut-check.  Beard and mustache totally out of control-check. It was the perfect day for a license picture.

I arrived at the jammed packed license office and was handed  my number- 645. Yeah I was going to be there awhile, and I was totally unprepared.

The sign at the desk caught my eye- checks or cash only. Crap. I took my chances and  left came back with my $20. After yet another 30 minutes I took the relatively simple signs test. ( I admit I cheated. They have this machine you look in and have to identify blank road signs. Was I supposed to study? For God’s sake there were 16 year olds all around rattling them off. WAIT- there were teens that had studied proudly yelling out the answers. I did what any 40 old scary monkey man struggling writer would do- I repeated what what the nearest teen said. 100 percent pass, Genius) So the woman held out her hand- $32 please. What? Crap- I ran to the bank again, and back.

I paid- sat, took picture. They are now apparently mailing them. So I waited a couple weeks. What did I do in the meantime? Well a hair cut and beard trim of course.

I literally sit in sleep pants for days- with coffee as my only companion. Who really sees me? Days turn into weeks into months. I eat, I make love, I sleep and start over again. Am I the only one afflicted with this almost antisocial affliction? Does Neil Gaiman look all hairy and scary after a book? Was he the number suspect after a sighting of the wolfman upon the completion of Coraline?

Please ring in this one. Or is this blog just part of my daily delusion of reality that writing lures me into with promises of making it big and someday actually driving a car in which I might need a license for?