July 4th I left the U.S. clean shaven with a #2 buzz cut. Didn’t pack a razor, didn’t want to use one.
My next shave and trim was in Florence, stopping into an oriental barbershop to take care of my neck-beard situation.
It was a good move, the beard to short hair equation didn’t look right. After that I didn’t plan on shaving or getting another cut, growing it out as long as I could.
Then I got to Belgrade.
Haircuts ran a hefty 2 dollars. But I held out, waiting. I liked the traveler’s look, the long hair, unshaven, standing out among the masses of Serbian buzz cuts, waking up and going about the day not caring what others thought of me.
But then I surrendered and went in for a hair cut. $2. Fifty cents for the tip. And I trimmed my beard.
It changed how I felt, it didn’t fit, didn’t feel right.
More proper. More clean. More normal.
I didn’t like.
Now my hair is growing out, losing it’s fresh cut look. My beard is growing back, nothing amazing, in fact, fairly dirty looking. And that’s how I like it. Dirty. Rough. Feral.