Backcountry Adventure, part 1.

It began with a simple day hike at Nelson Lakes, and ended as one of the most intense, beautiful, and precarious backcountry adventures of my life. There's a saying, "If you do something and survive, it's courageous; if you die, it's stupidity." We were fortunate that it was courageous this time around.

The day hike began at 1pm, a wonderful and stunning jaunt around Mt. Roberts, overlooking Nelson Lakes. Shantel and I were in great spirits; the weather was overcast and cloudy, but the hike promised to be beautiful and fulfilling even without visibility.







The terrain changed several times; for much of it we were hiking up the side of the mountain in switchbacks, but eventually the trail cut inward off the hillside and into the forest. At that point, we had climbed into the clouds, creating a haunting effect in the woods.





Cresting onto the summit of Mt. Roberts, a cold, bone-chilling wind buffeted us in all directions. But we were treated to some truly stunning cloud movements as it rolled over the top.

On our way down, we made it to one of the "huts" as they're called in New Zealand. These huts are maintained by the Department of Conservation. They're typically a single room with loads of counter space and a dining table, plus bunk space with thick foam mats for sleeping. The huts are stocked with wood, and visitors are welcomed to build their own fires in the wood furnace to heat the space. 

We took refuge there, as at that moment a hailstorm bore down on us just as we were arriving at the door. We hung out with a family there, who had made plans to go further into the park, to a place called Angulus Hut, but they had heard a storm was rolling in and didn't want their small ones to brave the high winds along the ridge.

Eventually we continued on our way, completing a loop back down the mountain and to our parked van. The weather turned again, forming thunder in the distance, and then, finally, a most stunning daybreak. The sun streamed in and made the whole place feel like it had never rained in the first place.

 

By the time we made it back to the car, it was only 4:30pm. We had finished much earlier than expected, doing the route that was estimated to take 5 hours in just over 3. It was early, and we were in good spirits, and we weren't ready to be done hiking. 

Looking back at the map, we saw that Angulus Hut was estimated to take ~8-10 hours to get there. We figured we could do it ~6 hours, given our hiking tempo and how off the original estimate was. Worst case scenario, we thought, we'd be hiking with our headlamps at night along an obvious track like the one we had followed.

Boy were we wrong on that part.

We hustled to pack our backs with warm clothing just in case, dinner for the evening, and sleeping gear. We made a reservation at the hut, so we didn't bring our tent. (That was the first really big mistake.) We set off again in good spirits; our bodies a little sore, but excited for the adventure and ready to push ourselves.

 

There was another route we could've taken, Speargrass Trail, which would've given us a bailout hut option halfway there at Speargrass Hut in case we decided the trek was too much and we wanted to stop for the evening. We debated for a little while, and then favored the "Ridgeline Route" because it promised to be for "more experienced backpackers" as opposed to the other route which was intended for families. We wanted to push ourselves.

We cruised back up the mountain, making excellent time. After summiting Mt. Roberts in even faster time that previously, we pressed onward to our final destination, Angulus Hut, 9 km away. It was 7pm, and it said it was 4.5 hours away.

I will never forget the experience of watching the sun make its steady descent toward the horizon while at 4000' elevation. Nothing is in your way to obscure the majesty and beauty of this great star lighting up all the land beneath you.

 

We were hiking along the ridge of a mountain range. That stood to reason, as it was called Ridgeline Route, after all. It was cold and windy, but not to the extent that we were concerned about what might happen when the sun set. We knew it would get colder, but both of us had additional layers and we were maintaining a solidly warm core body temperature right now.

The path was still pretty obvious: a worn track through the gravel and small rocks, always marked at intervals with orange metal posts. The posts were often buried into piles of huge rocks, as there was no where else to stake them securely.

 

We saw lots of bizarre life up there, including this strange moss that I've never seen before.



We could pretty clearly see a final ridge that we were going to ascend over. We powered our way up the mountain. When we ascended the ridge, anticipating that the ridgeline part was over, we would just find... more ridge. Always, every time, just. more. ridge.



It was 8pm. The sun was still in the sky, but light was steadily fading, and we were beginning to wonder when we'd begin descending. The faint, growing fear was kept in check by a steady supply of breathtaking views, however.



We powered onward, not yet worried about our circumstances. The wind wasn't terrible, we still had ~1.5 hrs of light, we had warm gear, and the path was well marked. We kept the conversation going, sharing stories and laughter. We were deliberately staying positive.



Then the path became increasingly less obvious. We were scrambling over huge rocks, up and down and back up again. The hiking was intense, and we wanted to keep moving at a steady clip. It was a full body experience with using our arms for balance and moving us up and down the boulder fields.

A reality was finally sinking in: this was not merely hiking a path, we were in the backcountry. A vast expanse of nature, barely maintained except for these regular, impersonal, uninformative route markers. We were picking our way along the ridges of a mountain range, almost as ambiguously as if we had pointed in the distance and made a best guess as to how to get there. The route was growing in challenge, to the point where we're carefully climbing around huge rocky, craggy summits, with a steep slope below us. We weren't navigating cliffs per se, but if we fell we'd have a decidedly unpleasant way down. 

 

It was around this time that Shantel noted that she forgot to bring the first aid kit. (Our second mistake.) It's fine as long as no one gets hurts, but that's a big if, and we both totally deserve to be outdoorsy-shamed for such an obvious omission.

It's fine, I thought to myself. What could possibly go wrong? I was now literally crawling across a mixture of a frosty snow drift and thick, sharp rocks, all of which are loose and sliding out from underneath me. As I stepped through the terrain, I listened to the scree underfoot sliding out and tumbling a long way down. At one point I had to use my hands to grip uncertain, loose boulders to avoid sliding down myself.

 

It's fine. Turning around, I saw Shantel standing there, staring at what she had to do after me, breathless. I could tell she was working hard to quiet the panic in her mind, just like me. We just needed to keep our heads on straight and keep moving forward. There was no turning back, that would only make the situation more dangerous. Go big or maybe don't go home.

Around this time, I stopped taking photos. It was 9pm, the sun was setting, and we had maybe another half hour of light left. We didn't have a lot of time to dilly-dally, so we kept moving fast. I did, however, manage to snap a couple shots of a most spectacular sunset across the mountains while waiting for Shantel to catch up. 

It was majestic and humbling to be this deep into nature. Logically, I knew I wasn't terribly far away -- we had covered maybe 10 miles by that point, but I felt utterly alone, as if I had been trekking for days in the wilderness. There was not a single trace of humanity, save for the route markers. While the feeling was a little terrifying, it was also exhilarating. I was beginning to understand why people undertake such epic journeys into nature.

 

"Hey," I said to Shantel, "Just wanted to note that this spot is pretty sheltered. Not that it would come to it." 

My lizard brain was trying its damndest to make me freak out, but I wouldn't let it. Peering into the fading light, I made reasonable guesses as to where we were heading and noting its compass bearing. We had water and food. I kept track of slightly flatter, more sheltered areas where we could take refuge if needed (again, having a tent would've been clutch in case of emergency). We both had excellent sleeping bags and could most likely withstand an uncomfortable, fearful night on mountain. The storm was nowhere in sight, so we were lucky in that regard.

Panicking wasn't go to serve us, so there was no room for it. Just keep moving, just keep those legs working, and keep careful track of where steps are landing.

My chief concern was losing track of the route markers once darkness descended. Sometimes they were hard to spot even before the sun set, and now I was thinking about how we'd pull it off I couldn't see beyond the beam of a headlamp. The path was occasionally worn well enough that we could make it that way, but there were too many places where there was no guessing which direction to go next for me to rely upon it.

I was working out contingencies in my head when we spotted a sign. A sign! Information! It was encouraging to even know the sign existed before reading it. Shantel wondered aloud, "This sign will either make me really happy to have a good cry. I wonder which kind of sign it is!"

" < -- Angulus Hut     30 min   1 km"

We were nearly there. We both laughed exuberantly and hugged one another. We got this.

I took out my headlamp because the light was about to completely fade from the sky, and replenished its batteries with some spares I had brought. (That was the 1st really great decision I had made, bringing those spares. Always bring spare batteries. Always.) With a fresh, bright beam of light, we had no problem finding each post, and the route was finally descending, rather than continuing along more ridges.

When we saw the hut, nestled next to a stunningly beautiful lake nestled among the mountains, we were filled with such elation and joy. We were going to be just fine. 

 

Once we made it to the hut and dumped our stuff, we met the only other two people in the hut that night. They were both, amusingly, from Portland. Small world. They had just gotten engaged by the lake maybe a couple hours earlier. They were friendly, convivial, and great with conversation. We quickly became acquainted, swapped stories and laughter.

We walked 13 miles that day. Looking through the photos later, we realized we had a pretty good shot of at least some of the distance covered.

 

When we ate, it was a deep, ravenous hunger, and the food felt so very deserved. Our sleeping bags were warm, which was fortunate because wood hadn't been delivered in a couple weeks and the hut was quite cold. The hut warden (DoC volunteers who staff the huts for week-long stints to provide weather updates and emergency services to backpackers) griped about the lack of firewood. She was probably 60 years old and a total badass.

I was so glad to make it through. It was the kind of danger where, in the present moment, it's totally fine, but it felt precarious, like that fortune could change very suddenly. We made some critical errors that made the situation much more precarious. Lessons learned:

1. Bring shelter
2. Bring a first aid kit
3. Check the weather beforehand
4. Check the route conditions (talk to the park rangers) and know what you're getting into

We made it through safe and sound and learned some important lessons. It was the most intense backpacking day of my life, and my first day in the backcountry. It's an experience that will stay with me for the rest of my life. 

"Give me your money."

TW armed robbery

About two hours ago (11:50pm) I was mugged at gunpoint in Philadelphia. I am safe and unharmed. Only $40 was stolen, I was only threatened and not attacked, and I'm fortunate it was nothing more -- both my phone and credit cards were not taken.

The guy was clumsy. He did a poor job getting my attention, approaching me from behind. I had been on the phone, and at some point he took the phone from me and turned it off, holding it in his hand. There was something strangely human in it, watching him do this thing we all do (ending a phone call).

Once he did and told me to give him my wallet, at first I was incredulous: "For real, you're robbing me?" At which point he waved his gun and said he wasn't fucking around. I was struck by how calm I remained through it, and how agitated he was. He kept demanding my wallet, which I calmly demonstrated was an object not on my person (I only carry an ID, credit card, and small amount of cash). I could see through his eyes the situation, how he was taking this huge risk of armed robbery and coming up disappointingly short, and it was bordering on comical to me. When he disengaged, he unconvincingly told me to run. I didn't, but walked away briefly before turning around to try to follow him as he fled the scene.

I was genuinely surprised he gave me my phone and cards back. He probably didn't want to risk getting tracked. In a strange way, I appreciated that. He wasn't trying to ruin my life, just nick some quick cash off a target. It felt almost like a business transaction, except clumsy and vaguely threatening. I feel hugely grateful I didn't have to add the fear of sexual assault on top of the experience. I am really, really lucky.

The whole experience felt more like a nuisance, a disappointing experience of Philadelphia, rather than a deeply traumatic experience. I almost didn't call the cops because so little damage was actually done, but then decided to in case he could be stopped from committing further crimes. The police were on the scene within minutes, picked me up and then scoured the area. It was impressive how quick their response time was, and it was a whole fleet of cars working in unison combined (briefly) with a helicopter search. For all the shit we give police forces about everything they do wrong (and there are plenty legitimate grievances to be sure), they certainly had their act together in responding here. Perhaps that partially had to do with white male privilege, but in this case I'll take it.

I was pleased with how I handled the situation, but it wasn't flawless. I'd give myself an 80% at best. I remained calm and under control, calculating my risk of fighting back versus complying. But, I was walking distracted late at night, and I know better there, and didn't assertively defend certain items (like allowing him to take the phone out of my hand). I don't like that he could've walked off with information that could've led to identity theft. I could tell the guy was all bluster, I could've defended myself better.

During the line of information gathering from one of the police officers, he asked me where I was walking from. I had been on a 45 minute walk, enjoying the night air, to get home. I informed him I was coming from downtown, about 30 minutes away, to which he exclaimed, "You WALKED?!" Call me a naïve Pacific Northwest hippy, apparently it's unheard of to enjoy a nighttime walk through sketchy parts of Philadelphia. It's moments like these that make me realize I'm a full-blown Polyanna when it comes to concerns about "sketchy neighborhoods" or fear of crime. We'll see how this event impacts that spirit, up to now I've generally believed that life is too short to be afraid of it and I'll just deal with the consequences when they come to me. I hope this event doesn't make me fearful of walking at night, I quite enjoy having that freedom and liberty.

I'm feeling lucky to be alive and mostly unaffected by a situation that could've turned devastating very quickly.

Welcome to the big leagues.

Favorite moment of the day: sitting in a conference room with a former CEO of Teach For America, talking about how to make life easier for Montessori teachers. Other attendees included a former SVP of Strategy for Teach For America, a tech entrepreneur previously listed on the "Top 40 Under 40," an engineer who built up a platform to remotely monitor the insulin levels of his diabetic daughter in his spare time, and Jeremy who originally built Transparent Classroom on nights and weekends to support the launch of a Montessori school.

There's nothing but all-stars in this room: welcome to the big leagues. It feels like I'm standing among giants, I'm scared witless thinking I'm so outclassed and under-qualified, and yet they still fully engage with my input. It's a positively thrilling experience.

Starting a new chapter: Transparent Classroom.

Today marks the beginning of new journey in life: I have left a rewarding and stable job with my previous employer, Amazon Web Services, to go pursue a rare and exciting opportunity working with Jeremy Lightsmith as Engineer #2 on his startup, Transparent Classroom.

Transparent Classroom is a classroom management software platform for Montessori teachers and admins. It has grown 3.5x annually for the past two years, with over 270 schools now signed up, and is commonly referred to as the most user-friendly and useful platform in the Montessori edtech space. Jeremy accomplished all this over four years as the sole engineer while also wearing all the other hats necessary to get a startup off the ground: CEO, CTO, CFO, admin, customer support rep, trainer, sysadmin, sales rep, and designer (to name a few). Oh, and he's also a husband, parent, Agile coach, and facilitator. Naturally, I jumped at the opportunity to work with someone so passionate to improve education and so capable to actually make a difference with a product that delights users.

I'm thrilled to work with a small and scrappy team, all of us dedicated to improving education and the lives of teachers and children. I can now apply my skills in software engineering to make the world a better place, which was what drew me to programming in the first place.

I would like to thank Jeremy for the opportunity to join the team, to my family for their support and understanding as I give up a perfectly good job at one of the biggest names in software to go pursue my passion, to my friends and community that supported me as I deliberated over the decision and offered such valuable advice. I am so fortunate to be able to take this risk, and part of being able to conquer my fears of the unknown comes from the support and growth through being part of this amazing community.

Teach 'em how to say goodbye, part 2: Laptop.

It's time at last to replace my beloved Sophie, a 2009 MacBook Pro that is starting to show her age. She's been with me through a whole hell of a lot: unemployment, graduate school, traveling the world as a dance teacher, learning how to program through online courses sitting in living rooms all over Europe. I remember the conversation with Gretchen Metzenberg that convinced me to buy a Mac in the first place, just as they were starting to explode in popularity.

I've lived many different lives with this most wonderful and reliable laptop by my side, there's so much learning and knowledge stored in this machine, so much love and affection and passion it has allowed me to share with the world. It has been my constant companion on my journey through my twenties and has stayed with me as I've changed careers multiple times and traveled the world and grown into the man I am today. I'll be carrying her with me for one last victory lap around the world on my November tour of Europe. When the time comes, it will be very hard to say goodbye to my weathered, sticker-covered laptop.




And also... awwwwww yes the latest line of MBPs look freaking SEXSAY.

Thoughts from the Deschutes River.

(Notes from a fly fishing trip on the Deschutes River, a three-day trip my father, brother, and I take every year in October around our (my brother’s and my) birthdays.) [Author’s note: posted in November, though I wrote most of this before I actually turned 30.]

Day One.

We awoke before light appeared in the sky, dragged our tired sorry asses out of bed, filled up on a hot continental breakfast (a real unexpected treat), then off to drive down to the river to meet our river guide. We've worked with the same guide for multiple years now, it's always good to see his friendly, annual face. We hit the river by 7am.

Within moments of casting off from the shore, the rain started, ranging from a niggling drizzle to an oppressive downpour, and essentially didn't stop for the next 12 hours. Even with all our waterproof gear, it was still an unpleasant experience, defending my cocoon of dryness against the attempted breaches by Mother Nature. Everything around you is wet: your bags are wet, the seats are wet, your snacks are wet; every time you remove a glove to do something with your bare hand and stick it back into the glove, some wetness infiltrates, compromising the zone of warmth you had set up for yourself. The steelhead salmon remained elusive throughout the day, though that’s par for the course for these fish that are infamously difficult to catch. Standing out in the river fishing through a spot, there’s no evidence that they’re even present: we’re a bunch of anglers praying at the alter of the Fish. I can’t help but lose interest or hope after a time, so my mind wanders.

During this trip, my thoughts have been centering on relationships lost. I'm rapidly approaching my 30th birthday and I still harbor a deep, inexplicable, and unshakeable fear that reaching my 30s and still single means I will die loveless and alone, and it's my fault for this situation and I chose this path to destruction and gave up some perfect opportunities for long-term happiness. Standing out here in the frigid waters, feeling the heat leech from my body, there is precious little to offer distraction from these thoughts. 

A lack of action in fishing, the insufferable weather, and my melancholic humor combined together to make a rather quiet, withdrawn day. By the time we reached our campsite, all three of us were ready to be done. "Thank god," I thought to myself, "I'm not sure I could take much more of this.” We were all similarly exhausted. It’s strange, thinking about how we were willfully engaged in an activity that we were *relieved* to be done with at the end of the day. Wandering around the camp grounds did treat me to some lovely views, which offered me a welcome respite and a reminder of part of why I make this trip every year.

 Day Two.

If yesterday was the day of rain, today was the day of wind. While I generally find wind to be beautiful and awesome, it is profoundly frustrating to attempt fly fishing on a blustery day. Casting with a fly fishing rod is a delicate art of timing and finesse, a subtle dance that the wind bowls over like a ogre. Despite the impeding weather, we did at last get confirmation that steelhead were there, with my dad and I each landing one within a couple minutes of each other. 

I quickly descended into the same ruminations as yesterday. I don’t know why I obsess over such things, or why 30 is considered a critical checkpoint by which I should have settled down with a partner. It’s been a chief concern since high school, though at that time I was focused on finding a romantic partner who would play video games with me. We’re in a new era where “30 is the new 20,” but unfortunately my expectations haven’t caught up to match, so my gremlins keep telling me 30s is when my prospects of finding a person start to dwindle rapidly. It’s annoying how intransigent they are: I have plenty empirical evidence in the form of so many amazing people in my life, people with whom I’ve formed connections of many styles and forms, which should indicate that I’m going to be just fine and I need to be patient.

I suspect much of my anguish stems for a belief that I nearly secured for myself that desired future (and blew the chance, my gremlin would append). Up until last year, I was happily moving forward with my life, unconcerned about this goal on the horizon, until I met a person that gave me concrete hope in turning that dream into reality, unleashing a bunch of hopes and dreams I had tidily locked away. When that relationship came to an end, my hopes ended with it, leaving me alone with the fears. I still miss her, a lot, I dream (literally and figuratively) of sharing space with her, I’m still hooked on that imagined future I created with her in it.

Admitting it brings on feelings of shame: I should be over it by now, I’ve been grieving for longer than ever before. I judge myself because there have been other impactful relationships in my past and it feels like I’m disrespecting them by being more heartbroken over this one than any other. I don't understand why, and it seems incongruous with my reality of how profoundly I've been affected by others, how much other relationships have meant to me. 

All this hurting certainly confuses the fostering of new connections, as I find myself blindsided by a flashbacks that grip my heart, even when I'm sharing space with other people and being wholehearted. In my last post on this topic, I wrote, "The challenging part is accepting the interleaving of moments uplifting and crushing.” I am just feeling that so hard right now.

Part of healing is finding new love, and yet it’s hard to welcome in that love to heal you when you’re still hurting, and that catch-22 makes the prospect of getting over someone feel impossible. Do people normally carry past loves with them for so long, always aware of those paths unexplored or curtailed? I have a hard time sitting with this reality, for that other path feels like it was ripped away from me, I was stripped of control and had to accept a new harsh reality that I didn't want to accept.

As the night carried on and I poured my thoughts onto the screen, sitting by the river with the rush of the water in my ears, I slipped into a woeful downward spiral, recounting many of my past relationships, recalling their highlights, and feeling increasingly sad about the loss of them. Eventually, I forced myself to sleep in order to break the cycle of derisive and destructive self-talk. It was one of the worst spirals I’ve faced in several months. I had been doing relatively well for quite some time, I guess I had built up a lot of sadness to release all at the same time.

Day Three.

A short and sweet day, and a decently uplifting ending to a rather physically and mentally demanding fishing trip. The rain and wind relented and my brother, whom the fish had eluded for the first two days, at long last hooked a steelhead on our first stop. (As if in a way of cosmic apology, Nathan landed yet another fish later on as well.) In the process of taking some action photos of him, I tripped and fell into the river, flooding my waders with icy water. I fortunately had a spare change of clothes and the weather wasn't as wretched, so I wasn't shivering all day. Even so, it broke my resolve to keep fishing, so I was very glad to see the landing ramp that signaled the end of the trip.

Now it’s off to home, a quick dinner, and then a drive back to Seattle. It’s going to be a busy week — my birthday is Thursday, my 30th birthday weekend shindig gets underway Friday evening, with many logistics still to handle. This pace of life, swooping from one activity to the next with little downtime, is par for the course, and one not maintainable forever.

I’m slowly trying to shift gears toward being more locally focused. Having a place of permanent residence certainly helps. My calendar is not nearly as packed as it has been in the past, and while I’m still traveling a great deal I have been getting a lot out of being home in Seattle. It’s hard to say “No” to opportunities for travel, for visiting new places and old. I see a conundrum in wanting a local partner to build something with, but not spending enough time locally to foster that possibility because I’d rather travel when I don’t have a partner to be with. But as I enter this new phase and learn from the past relationship, I seek ways to create space for something more permanent and rooted. It can be hard to maintain hope that such a person will come, that I will eventually meet someone and I haven’t “used up” all my luck, and I guess that’s just a struggle I’ll always be living with.

As I prepare for this thirtieth trip around the sun, I certainly didn’t want to be flying solo, but such is the way my life has unfurled, through a meandering sequence of decisions and events that have brought me to this moment. Reflecting upon each turning point in my life, each career decision, each relationship started or ended, it’s unclear whether this reality is my own "fault," if I made an error along and now I am reaping what I sowed. I branch off from each place into an alternate universe where I took a different course, forecasting a rose-colored life where I’m somehow far more happier than I am right now. It’s a useless, unproductive habit, and one I can’t help but indulge in from time to time. At the end of the day, there’s not a thing I can do to change it: there’s only one way to travel the river of life, and that’s downstream. 

Teach 'em how to say goodbye, part 1: Hair.

Two and a half years ago, I cut my hair while in Boston as I was just embarking on a journey to be a nomadic dance instructor.

Since then, I've traveled around the world, shared with so many communities, and met countless amazing, talented, loving people. I visited a new continent and contemplated what I want in life 30 meters deep in an ocean. I’ve cuddled a koala bear. I learned what it means to dare greatly and be truly vulnerable. I taught myself how to be a software engineer and added a new career path that allows me to balance engineering with traveling for dance. I feel vastly more in tune with my self, I feel more self-actualized than ever before. I lived through the blossoming and passing of two life-changing relationships that have permanently altered my character and course in life. I’ve loved so intensely it terrified me, so hard it felt like my heart was ripping out of my chest. I’ve felt unimaginable grief and learned how to really, truly cry. Living in a suitcase taught me innumerable valuable lessons about myself and what I want in life, it forced me to strip away so much of my life and look at what lies at the core of my existence. It allowed me to explore a career as a dance instructor and to share my passion with the world. All the while, my hair continued to grow.

I'm now ready for the next phase of life. One focused on setting down roots, forming deeper bonds, traveling (a little) less, diving into the great unknown of laying a foundation for my long-term future of family and children. A new stage of adulthood. As part of the metamorphosis, I need to say goodbye to the accoutrements of my past iteration of living, of the materials that linked me energetically to a certain way of being.

First up: my hair. My hair that has been with me for over two years, growing steadily along with me. It's been put in man-buns, ponytails, caked with playa dust, shaped into beautiful braids, and had many flowers woven into it. It allowed me to express a feminine side of myself. There are so many memories embedded in my hair, and now it's time to move on from them, look forward to the next memories to be formed. I'll be donating the hair to a charitable cause.

I could not have stepped through this pivotal transformation without the adept support of Gretchen Metzenberg. Thank you, Gretchers, for all your emotional labor in helping me along this journey. You are a loving and amazing friend.

And now: the photos...

We began with Gretchen banging me that morning, because why not get some laughs before cutting off all my hair.

And then it was off to the barber. Me preparing for it to be chopped off...

Having some fun along the way...

I couldn’t believe how much hair was there.

The end result!

It has been such a long time that I’ve had a trendy men’s haircut, I hardly recognize myself. Having long hair was fun, I always enjoyed the commentary about my blonde mane, and it allowed me to express a feminine side.

It was a lot of fun and deeply playful, gender-bending in this way, but at the end of the day when I'd look at photos of me it didn't quite… look like me. At least when I didn't have my hair properly maintained. I will always think the braids look fantastic and masculine in a Nordic sort of way, but I guess it was just time for a change, time to change my hair along with so many other things in my life. I’m sure there will be times I will miss it. But it will always be with me in spirit, these memories and learnings, I will carry them in my heart. And, if I really want to, I can always grow my hair back out. It feels good to exercise control in through these sort of drastic, pseudo-permanent ways.

It’s thrilling and bewildering at the same time, having a traditional haircut. I hardly recognize myself, and yet I can’t really imagine myself any way but with the shorter hair, it just seems to fit me right now. But I’m quite excited for this redefinition of self. It’s identifying with the mainstream in a way I don’t normally do, but I’m more accepting of it this time around. I feel more masculine, which is interesting because it’s all because of an arbitrary societal preference for shorter hair among men. But, it works. I feel attractive and lively and bright in a way I had lost touch with particularly over the past six to twelve months.

I feel like a new man. Hello, world.