T

You know, T, sometimes you just want to cut your hair like Rhianna. And by the time you remember you’re not Rhianna, and realize that you actually don’t know how to cut hair…well, it’s too late. And now you’re bald.

These things happen, T.

They happen and it’s okay. Because you know what? Fashion fails don’t cause earthquakes or tsunamis or even moderate drops in the NASDAQ. Bald heads do not offend God. There are seven billion people on this planet and six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine people DO NOT CARE about my hair!

That’s everybody except you, T.

Not to advocate conformity or anything like that, but I think when you find yourself in a minority of one, it might at least be worth considering that you’re, you know, wrong. And that’s okay, too.

You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re all ok, T.

The world glitters in multitude. It is various and vast. It is beautiful beyond my ability to comprehend or articulate. You are beautiful, too. And I don’t want you to worry.

Remember what Bob Ross said—there are no mistakes; only happy accidents.

See you next month,
Argo