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As I pack and brace myself for my own trail of tears, I regret that I didn't get that haircut.

Remember, not long before Arthudo all but died, I was facing another personal trial, this one with the state of Texas. In these Trumpized times, they are making it harder for a person to claim citizenship, and I need to renew my ID card. I was planning on getting my haircut before I went to their offices, to help improve my chances a little by looking a little less Third World and pre-Columbian.

By the time Arthudo fell into his, what, coma-like condition, I had not mentioned my problem yet. I was waiting for 'a good opportunity'. In truth, he had been looking too weak and over-extended with his own personal business, and so I was waiting to tell him until he looked more hearty and less over-burdened. But that time never came.

And, now, getting ready to face the world on my own legs for the first time in my life (in my mid-fifties and for what promises to be only a very brief duration), I wish I didn't have to go out with this raggedy mop of hair on my head. I feel as though I am going to be a cop-magnet, looking so wild and 'un-American' - too monkey-like, indeed, my monkey-knight. I really don't need the extra hassle.

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monk222

May 2019

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