Khong hieu! (I don't understand!)

Last Friday, my world turned upside down.

My hair grows very slowly. When I decided to start growing it out last June, I knew I would need to take it seriously if I was to have any hope of getting it long enough to tie behind the neck. So I used fertilizers, implants, potions, and a healthy dose of Rogaine on a daily basis. I washed eggs through my hair. I cut the nibs during full moons. I sat in class meditating, mentally pushing the hair out of my head. I did therapies. I even used shampoo. For all my efforts, my hair grew at the rate of about two-and-a-half eighths of a centimeter per month.

Last Friday, I was mere weeks from a turning point in my do.

My hair growth was arduously slow, but nonetheless steady. I had two major styles. The most common was to pop a beanie onto my head while climbing out of the shower, then peel it off and wring it out when I clambered into bed that night. That strategy worked great, though of course it was always embarrassing when some smartypants yanked my covering off to reveal an epic mound of beanie hair. My second method - for when I was really going all out - was to stand on my head and lower my hair into a vat of gel. I would then shake my head once or twice, wipe my face with the back of my sleeve, and go on with my daily business.

Both these methods were about to be rendered obsolete, giving way to a dashing tied-back style reminiscent of, well, Richelieu. I was ready for a bit of a trim on the sides and back just to make sure everything was staying neat. So I wended my way to the salon of a very friendly but poorly incorporated Vietnamese family that cut hair for college student rates.

"I'm growing it out," I said, making emphatic gestures. "I want it layered. I want you to trim the sides and back a bit so the top can hang straight down rather than poofing out sideways." My stylist nodded and smiled, and began her work.

Apparently "I want it layered," sounds just like the Vietnamese for "I want it to look just like Sam H." My stylist moved with confidence and skill. She buzzed. She snipped. She measured. She trimmed. But mostly, she just buzzed.

"Dis goo?" She asked with a beaming smile.

"No," I said. "You're cutting it too short."

Her eyes got really big and she nodded enthusiastically. "Oooooh, too sho! Okay!"

The next thing I knew, my gorgeous head of hair - my pride and joy - had been knocked back to an unhealthy inch-and-a-half curly mess on the top of my head.

Still wearing that enthusiastic smile, she asked if that was what I wanted (or maybe she asked me to please pass the noodles and soy sauce).

"You can stop now," I said, biting back tears. "We're done." I paid her the two bits and wandered, distraught, into the parking lot. Then I leaned over and shook my head violently. My hair remained completely motionless. An hour ago it would have been streaming about in all directions in a fashion reminiscent of the entrance of the much-maligned Prince Charming from Shrek 2, who has very cool hair.

I was devastated. An hour later, I appeared at what amounted to a minor social function, and about forty people who had always pretended to be my friends stabbed me in the soft spot between my shoulder blades with insulting comments against my taste like: "It actually looks pretty good." It actually looked good when my hair was accidentally ruined!? How did my hair look when I was happy with it? Like Donald Trump, I suppose? Maybe these "friends" would prefer a crew cut! A buzz! Heck, why not shave it all off and get a dragon tattoo? Some consolation they turned out to be. Only one person really seemed to sympathize. I believe "Wow, your hair looks really bad," were her exact words.

My girlfriend dumped me the next day. She said it wasn't working. She said the chemistry was gone. She said she was in love with someone else. There were tears shed. She was pretty bummed about it, too.

Last Saturday, Mrs H came up to me and started talking to me about things I'd never heard of. After a few minutes of awkwardness, I interrupted: "Um ... I'm not Sam. That's your son way over there." It was at the moment that I resolved not to hold back. I would never go back for a haircut - never. I would grow my hair as long as it would get and let it fall out when it was done. I wouldn't comb it, clean it, or style it. This was to be a return to nature in a fashion that my next door neighbor, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, would be proud of.

I'm now on day 3, and there are no women in sight.