It was August 2002, and our band played at a summer camp near Toronto. It was a blast: the people were kind, the nature around us – the lake-spotted forest – was gorgeous, and everyone was locked in when we led the music.
My fashion choices were a blast, too, as in, “Blast! What was I thinking??” I wish someone would’ve advised me to 86 that medium/large 86 shirt that’s hanging off of me. Not sure what my fashion-forward friends would say, but I was digging the leather-braided necklace. My friend gave it to me.
But my biggest beef here is my hair. Dating back to the days when my grandma cut my hair while I squirmed like a worm under a scratchy bed sheet, I’ve always had problems keeping a consistent haircut. I’m actually in need of one right now. However, the one up there is cringeworthy. It may not look bad to you now, but when I look at myself there, all I see is this: