I admit: I'm a hermit. I usually only go out on Sundays to the library to pick up my weekly 18-wheeler-load of books. That's followed by shopping at Ralph's and any other stores we need to go to. On Tuesdays, I go with my dad to pick up my sister from College of the Canyons, the only community college in the Santa Clarita Valley, as her classes end after 8 p.m., and no buses run to our area by then.
I have everything I need in this house. There's movies to watch on the Tivo when I'm compiling job listings for a five-day-a-week freelance writing newsletter (owned by someone else, so I get a paycheck), there's jazz I haven't yet listened to, there's Netflix for titles I need to review for ScreenIt as well as research for my first book (a documentary on D.W. Griffith to come, for research on silent film actor Robert Harron, as well as "True Heart Susie" from 1919 for the same purpose), and there's stacks of books to read, including the ones I need to read for research. There's not much reason to go out in this valley since there's nothing anyway. To really find anything to do, you have to get out of this valley and go to the San Fernando Valley or Los Angeles proper. I don't do it often. In fact, I don't even drive, even though I have my license.
That's why I thought it strange when my mom asked if I could wait possibly another two weeks for a haircut. I'm the only one who really looks at my hair. There are days when I let it go wild and it matters to no one. I've no social reputation to maintain. The only problem I have with my hair is when I take a shower before bed at 5 a.m. Even if I dry my hair well enough, there's always a part in the morning that stubbornly sticks up, no matter how many times my comb rampages through it. That's the only frustration from my hair getting longer.
Two more weeks? I can wait. I don't have to impress anyone. Unless the trees are picky about appearance.