On our very first rest day of the trip, in Eureka, MT, Chris and I received an unexpected gift. We were sitting in the laundromat, reading our books as we waited for the wash cycle to complete. The door swung open, and a head of strawberry blonde dreadlocks sitting atop a long-sleeved flannel shirt and torn jeans strolled in. He was carrying a basket full of clothing, and, as he scanned the room, he spotted us.
I’m not sure why, but my long hair has bothered me much more this trip than it did for our cross country trip. After mixing with sweat, bug spray, sunscreen, and dirt, it is nearly impossible to get a brush through it. After only a day or two of riding, it quickly begins to resemble a giant dreadlock.
Accordingly, I have been dreaming about chopping it off. Usually when I get a haircut, which is only once or twice a year, my conversation with Chris beforehand goes something like this:
R: I’m thinking about getting a pixie cut.
C: I’m not good at dealing with change.