Clipper Crisis

The physical manifestation of the Colonel's short-lived supposed mid-life crisis ceased to exist at roughly 1130 local, yesterday.

The Colonel got a haircut. 

All of 'em, actually, and tight to the thin skin covering the Colonel's brain-housing group.    

The Colonel adds emphasis to the word supposed above because not even he was certain of the reason for the six-month lapse between hair trimmer scalp massages.  

The Colonel's Lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda recently opined that she believed the Colonel was going through his mid-life crisis, and if so, further gently opined that a little extra hair on the Colonel's normally close-clipped and mostly-bald pate was about all the crisis manifestation she was willing to endure. 

She is always loving and understanding.

"Listen, Knucklehead.  You can let your hair -- what little is left of it -- grow out, if you want.  But, don't even think about getting a sports car and spending more time driving around the Square!"

"What?  You think the Colonel will start chasing loose women?"

"Ha! You'll need more than that wispy ring of head fuzz and a sports car to turn heads, you old goat." 

At this point in the always-uplifting life-discussions with his soul- mate, the Colonel normally demonstrates his maturity, breaks contact, and retreats to his workshop to sulk.

Instead, the Colonel ignored the low maturity altitude warning light blinking brightly in the back of his paltry populated nerve center and pressed the issue.

"Ain't goin' through no mid-life crisis!  The Colonel will get a haircut when the Ole Miss Rebels win a football game."  

This bit of information seemed to allay, somewhat, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's fears about her man's sanity,

"That's the second-most crazy thing I've ever heard you say!  Your Rebels can't even be counted on to show up on their home field.  You're likely to have a pony-tail, if that's what you're waiting on to cut that mess!"  

"The Colonel doesn't..."    

"Quit referring to yourself in the third person, Knucklehead!  Grow up and join the civilian world!"

The workshop beckoned and the Colonel broke contact for a sawdust sulk.

So, why did the Colonel finally get a haircut?

Well, as the thousands of you who imbibe loyally of the literary libations ladled out in posts hereon will remember from a previous post, the Colonel has been getting in shape for the most anticipated gridiron contest of the year -- The Annual First Baptist Church of Abbeville Adult v. Youth Flag Football Game.  Normally played, rain or shine, the Saturday before that game of much lesser import -- the Colonel thinks it's called the Super Bowl -- this year's game was postponed two weeks due to lightning.  

Yesterday morning, the Colonel's team -- the Adults (based more on age than action) soundly drubbed the Youth.        

Immediately upon arrival at the Big House, the Colonel broke out his hair clippers and restored his dignity.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda smiled at the sight,

"Thought you weren't going to get it cut until Ole Miss won a football game?"

The Colonel, remembering his Lady's third-person appellation admonition, reminded the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda,

"I AM OLE MISS!"