Reverse Samson

I've chased the spectre of corn-rows twice now, reaching a curlish fro upon the first attempt and a Nero-esque Roman emperor front-comb the second, and have learned something of biblical proportions. Hair, to me, functions in a sort of inverse-Samson situation, in that the longer it grows, the weaker my mettle and on-pointedness becomes. I need worry not of some Delilah steeling into my quarters in the dead of night, taking care to walk and not run to my place of rest as the scissors are not the rounded-tip ilk and we know she's all careful like, only to take my hair and with it my power in some sort of perverse Highlander quickening. Rather, I simply need to ascertain that the razor and clippers of my often blunted barber touch down upon my dome every nine-eleven days. In these waning days of the zeroes as the spring ushers in a new energy, it is proper that one stay sharp.