No. 217 - These Seasons
I woke up in a Motel 6 near the airport in Austin. My alarm went off at six to a pitch-black Texas morning.
I threw on my dirty Wranglers, a denim shirt, and the socks I wore the day before. I combed my hair with my hand before throwing an Allen’s Boots cap on. I dropped off my rental and sat in the terminal with nothing but my thoughts.
In a bathroom mirror I noticed my mustache had grown asymmetrical. The right side is longer than the left, and I don’t care. My lips are not visible either - especially on the rare occasion when I tend to it with a comb.
For someone who’s particular about his appearance, I recognize this lackadaisical attitude is out of character - yet it’s welcomed.
I just don’t care. Nor do I care that my hair is so long it’s curling - a bushwhacked mess really. Nor do I care that my jeans carry dirt from West Texas, or that my boots are dustier than an ashtray. Or that my shirt has never been washed.
A buddy the other day asked if I had a change of clothes. I said I did, but I didn’t care to change.
I enjoy waking up to a pair of begrimed jeans, a soiled shirt, and a tangled mustache that smells of last night’s cigars.
There’s a quirk in my personality that heretofore only appeared in the Rockies. But as of late, Texas brings it out too.
This quirk is one where I fall into a disheveled drifter who doesn’t bathe regularly, who shaves once, maybe twice a week, who falls asleep with his boots on and doesn’t brush his teeth.
My face is usually sunburned, I rarely remove my sunglasses, and I’m prone to napping in libraries on account of exhaustion.
I still do business though. I’m never late and I don’t call in sick. I work hard - VERY hard - even when I arrive disheveled. Sleeping in tents and showering outdoors will do that.
Anyway, I’m back in Atlanta and something is about to happen which I’m trying to avoid. It’s inevitable, as much as I hate admitting it — that before the weekend I will have done three things:
Take a very, very long shower
Get a haircut
Shave my mustache
And until my next trip to Texas, my cowboy boots will go unworn. In their place will be loafers.
A WASPy metamorphosis will happen. Try as I may at keeping long hair and a mustache, they’ll be 86’ed, and in no time I’ll be in Highlands, NC for spring break in khakis, a polo, and a quarter zip - yup… just like that, I’ll go from a dirty wannabe cowboy to the universe from whence I came: a clean-shaven prep in a needlepoint belt.
And when spring break is over, I’ll be in New York, D.C., Boston, and Chicago, in a suit, tie, and suspenders. Oh, my cowboy hat will be replaced with a fedora.
Don’t get me wrong: I love wearing a suit and tie. And I’m OK with a Don Draper haircut and shaving every morning. A spritz of cologne doesn’t hurt either.
My clothes won’t be soaked in sweat and cigar smoke. They’ll be crisp. They’ll be measured. And I’ll feel like a million bucks.
But in the bowels of my subconscious I’ll be counting the days to my next trip to Austin or Jackson Hole, when I can quit giving a shit.
When I can quit shaving
When I can quit washing my clothes
When I can take a shower under an oak tree
When I can have a cigar for breakfast
When I can wear the same socks for days
When I can comb my hair with my hand
When I can fall asleep with my boots on
But spring is about here. And summer is close behind, so I’ll make my seasonal concessions. Mostly begrudgingly, but not entirely.
I don’t really understand myself.
Why I prefer a mustache in the fall and winter and not in the spring and summer.
Why I’m attracted to big cities and other times the West… from Montana to New Mexico and everything in between.
Why some months of the year it’s Bach, golf, and squash… and other months it’s Dylan, fly fishing, and campgrounds.
It’s almost as if there’s a bohemian and a capitalist inside my skull; sometimes they dance, sometimes they’re in a bare-knuckle fight.
Anyway, I’ll be at the barber in the next day or two, looking at the clean-shaven guy in the mirror, and not understanding these seasons.
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA
