The Weekend in Foolish Attention

Bits and bytes of the week

CUTTING OFF THE NOSE… It seems, and I can’t say I’m immune to the tug, that many of we comfortable, lazy, and entitled exceptional Americans are willing to accept far higher prices in the grocery store, less safety in regulatory practices, and a sense of chaos in government for the next four years to scratch back away from the annoyance of Utopians clawing for the power of retaliation for being marginalized.

There’s everything right and correct about Diversity and Inclusion but Equity is about revenge. There’s everything good about getting out of the way of people identifying themselves as they please but requiring we accept it as fact and encroaching on the rights of others to codify it into law is about reprisal for feeling bullied. Regulation of corporate practices and environmental protections is necessary but the expansion of bureaucratic infrastructure is about wasting money to punish those with ideas.

We now endure the overcorrection of the overcorrection. Trump and his minions will proceed to cut the nose off the country to spite the face and all calls to resist, unless that resistance is pragmatic rather than emotional plus is focused on unity rather than further retribution, will simply continue the pattern so pointlessly repeated.

ZEMECKIS, THE PESSIMIST. I think Robert Zemeckis may need some meds. He seems incredibly depressed and unusually cynical. Let me back up.

On the eve of my birthday, after a remarkable dinner and a haircut, mom and I hunkered down to watch a movie. We landed on Robert Zemeckis’s HERE, a rare big budget experimental film that frames the passage of time from the view of life from one specific spot on the planet. In October, I met the director as he launched the Chicago premiere as part of the CIFF, and he espoused the need for experimentation in the arts. I didn’t get to catch the film then but had a good feeling about it. Its less than explosive reception had kept me from seeing it sooner.

Lemme tell ya, this is one fucking depressing film. Heaps of regrets and dreams left behind.

Don’t mistake this as a reflection of the cinematic achievement. It’s a lovely film. Zemeckis knows exactly how to direct the eye and, while sometimes ham-fisted, brings back the callbacks and certain sentimental tropes like the pro he is. If there is a message gleaned from HERE, it is that life is nothing but a series of tragedies and one should never have kids because kids will single-handedly destroy your dreams. Also, that black people definitely lived in this house but were only tokens with little character or stake in things.

Yes. It is my birthday and perhaps-s a reflection on time and loss is appropriate but c’mon, Bob. How about a ray of sunshine to buttress the newfound cynicism?

THE MUSEUM CHALLENGE. My friend Gisela has a mission: see a live concert at least once a month. Since coming back to my city, I realized that I need to immerse myself in the place in ways I hadn’t in the past. Thus, my new mission for 2025 is to go to every museum Chicago has to offer. Large, small, art, science, history, neighborhood, cultural—whatever. Every single museum. Most people who go with me to museums get bored with me pretty fast because I want to read everything. Going by myself? No pressure.

Recently, I decided to spend some time in the venerable Art Institute of Chicago. I was in there for nearly nine hours. Just standing in front of history and art, soaking it all in.

Yeah. This will be fun.

THE LOW-RENT REBOOT. A new ritual when coming to Kansas is my sister cutting my hair. First, she’s willing. Second, she’s great at it. Unlike going to a SuperCuts, it takes roughly ten minutes and the conversation is interesting and fun. Every time I feel fresh and new. So, for a moment, consider the improbable but effective resurrection provided by the simple haircut.

[CLEARS THROAT, TAPS MICROPHONE]

There is a phenomenon that exists in the realm of mundane human activities—acts so quotidian, so subsumed into the narrative of existence, that we rarely stop to interrogate their significance. One such act, which I posit is at once banal and profound, is the haircut. To dismiss the haircut as mere grooming or aesthetic upkeep is to miss its deeper significance. The haircut, I contend, is not merely the removal of dead keratin from the head; it is a reboot of the self, a small yet potent ritual that encapsulates the endless human striving for reinvention, control, and meaning.

Let’s begin with the premise that hair is both a part of the self and not. It grows from us, fueled by our biology, but it is lifeless once it emerges. Hair exists in a liminal space—a dead thing that remains tethered to the body, signaling vitality even as it itself is inert. It is this paradox that makes the haircut a uniquely charged act. To cut one’s hair is to confront, in microcosm, the larger existential truth of human life: we are alive, and yet surrounded by death; we are whole, yet composed of parts that can be severed without consequence to our core.

Hair is, of course, more than just biology. It is a symbol, a semiotic vessel into which we pour identity, culture, and self-expression. The punk rock mohawk, the Wall Street slicked-back power cut, or the shaved head. Each is a statement, a visual shorthand for a set of values, affiliations, or aspirations. Hair is a signifier, and the haircut is an act of editing that signifier—a decision about what aspect of the self to amplify or diminish.

In this way, the haircut functions as a kind of punctuation mark in the ongoing narrative of the self. It is not unlike the moment in a novel when the protagonist, having been worn down by the chaos of the plot, makes a bold decision that signals a turning point. A haircut is rarely just a haircut; it is a visual proclamation that says, “Something is different now.”

The term “reboot” is, of course, borrowed from the language of technology, and it carries with it connotations of interruption, recalibration, and renewal. To reboot a computer is to clear its memory, to wipe away the accumulated detritus of half-executed processes and glitches, and to allow it to begin again with a clean slate. A haircut operates in much the same way, albeit in the messy, analog realm of human psychology.

When we sit in the barber’s chair, we are enacting a ritual of surrender and transformation. We hand over control of our appearance to another person, trusting them to execute our vision (or, in some cases, to impose their own). The snipping of scissors or the buzz of clippers is a tactile, auditory confirmation that change is happening, that the past—manifest in the length and shape of our hair—is being discarded.

This act of removal is inherently symbolic. To cut one’s hair is to declare that the old self is no longer sufficient, that it must be pared down to make room for something new. It is an act of optimism, however small—an assertion that reinvention is possible, that the trajectory of one’s life is not fixed but malleable.

It is worth noting that the haircut is, at its core, an attempt to exert control over a world that is largely uncontrollable. Hair grows whether we will it to or not, and its growth is a reminder of the passage of time, of the body’s relentless march toward entropy. To cut one’s hair is to impose order on this process, to assert a kind of dominion over the unruliness of nature.

But this control is, of course, illusory. Hair will grow back. The reboot is temporary, a fleeting moment of clarity before the chaos resumes. This is part of the haircut’s poignancy: it is a gesture of defiance against the inevitability of change, even as it acknowledges that inevitability.

The meaning of a haircut is shaped by culture, context, and history. In some societies, the act of cutting one’s hair is imbued with ritual significance. The Buddhist monk shaves his head as a symbol of renunciation, a shedding of worldly attachments. The soldier receives a buzz cut as an initiation into a collective identity, a stripping away of individuality in service to the group.

Even in less overtly ritualistic contexts, haircuts are laden with cultural meaning. Consider the transformative haircuts of pop culture: Audrey Hepburn’s pixie cut in Roman Holiday, Britney Spears’ infamous head-shaving moment, or the dramatic makeover scene that appears in seemingly every romantic comedy (usually accompanied by the removal of glasses because, you know, nerdy girls don’t put out). These moments resonate because they tap into a universal truth: the desire to reinvent oneself, to break free from the past and embrace a new identity.

Of course, it would be naive to suggest that a haircut can solve deep-seated existential crises or fundamentally alter the trajectory of one’s life. The reboot is, at best, a symbolic gesture, a superficial change that may or may not reflect deeper shifts in the psyche.

There is something to be said for the power of symbols. The haircut, like any ritual, gains its power not from its practical function but from the meaning we ascribe to it. To cut one’s hair is to make a statement, however small, about who one is and who one wishes to be. It is a way of marking time, of drawing a line between the past and the future.

In the end, the haircut is both trivial and profound, a mundane act that carries within it the weight of human striving. It is a reminder that we are, at our core, creatures of hope—constantly seeking to reinvent ourselves, to impose order on chaos, to find meaning in the act of cutting away what is no longer needed.

THIS. IS. WHAT. I’VE. BEEN. WAITING. FOR. Since 1976. I know—nerd.

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That’s it this week! As always, thanks for reading and sharing. Things are getting bizzaro in the world because we have the Insane Clown Posse running the show so try to do what I advise my staff to do: respond but do not react.