I’m coming to terms with … my hair.

I know there are bigger problems in the world. More important things to worry about. People out there really suffering. Physically. Financially. Mentally. I get that, and I feel petty about this.

But still, I’m coming to terms with this right now.

It’s been a life-long struggle … my hair. A reckoning even. At times, depending on the humidity, some might call it an existential crisis. I would.

Our hair, like it or not, helps to define us. That’s why we spend so much time obsessing over it. Cutting and coloring it. “Styling” it. Trying not to lose it. Making sure that when we go out, it represents who we are. Or, who we want to be. It projects and speaks and says, “Look here! This is me!”

For much of my life, I’ve been trying to tame mine. To control it. Some people comb or part their hair. I’ve always waged war. I see each morning as a running battle between good and evil. Two great (or at least slightly-above-mediocre) warriors facing off in the mirror, preparing for a battle of epic proportions.

Me? I am the good, and slightly ordinary, night who wants to instill peace and order – complete, inconspicuous flatness across the land atop my head. No unruliness. Nobody out of line. Nothing that draws any kind of unwanted attention. If my hair could speak, I would want it to say, “Nothing to see here. Please move along.”

If you got your stimulus check from the IRS, hooray for you! Seriously … I mean that. Hoo-ray! I’m glad for you. It’s just that, I haven’t gotten mine yet, and while I’m not desperate for it – I have snacks! – I do kind of want it. Because it’s mine. And I kind of feel like, well, you got yours, so … WHERE’S MINE!?!

But I haven’t gotten it yet. I know this because I check my bank account roughly 700 times a day … to the point that the tips of my fingers have gone numb and I’m starting to hallucinate about the IRS logo chasing me through the desert. (I mean, what is that logo? An eagle proudly doing his taxes or something?)

Again, don’t worry about me financially. I just get a little neurotic about things. When I was late for my own birth, I started knocking on my mother’s womb and calling out, “Hell-OOOO! Can we get a move on here?!?”

Maybe you’re like me: Wanting that money. So I have put together some helpful hints on finding out more information on your check, as well as coping with the frustration of waiting for it to arrive in your bank account:

• This is extremely important, as in everything I’ve read all experts recommend this: Check your bank account 700 times a day. Do it until the tips of your fingers go numb and you start to hallucinate about the IRS logo chasing you through the desert. It doesn’t matter if you just checked it 3 seconds ago. Because maybe at that moment the direct deposit was still processing and now it’s in there. Yeah, good point. Hold on a second while I go … DANG! Where is it?

It was a bit of a scare earlier this month. One of my college students came down sick, and during times like these, you take that seriously. He self-quarantined himself for a little over a week before eventually getting a coronavirus test. Thankfully, it came back negative. What a relief! That had been an unnerving time, and it gets you thinking about things, like how you should never take your health for granted. Or how strong these bonds between teachers and students can be. Or how strange the grocery buying habits of college students are.

I learned this after offering to pick him up some groceries. When I asked how he was situated for food, he told me he had a few cans of soup and that he would be alright. Oh, OK. Sure! “Text me a list and I’ll pick you up something,” I remember writing him, thinking a carton of ramen noodles and a bag of beef jerky would do the trick.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Like most Americans, there are quite a few things I’ve been guilty of taking for granted. The coronavirus is teaching me that. Things I didn’t appreciate enough or went through the motions on. Along with it, and as I find myself finishing up my third week of working from home (and what has already been a lifetime of social distancing,) I’ve also begun to realize how many things I miss. Things I can’t wait to do again once this whole coronavirus pandemic is over and a distant memory.

Usually, it’s the little things. Never the big ones. The small, seemingly-inconsequential stuff that I never used to give much thought to. Like getting my hair cut. My wife has banned me from that one (sorry Price’s Barber Shop!) My hair now looks like a cross between modern art and what happens to a marshmallow when you toss it in a fire. I think my follicles are actually some kind of imprisoned demon yearning to be free, and it takes all of my strength to contain it.

I try to slick it down, pressing and tucking and unspooling, but just when I think I have things under control and go about my business, I hear a loud snap like a pine tree cracking in half and elaborate curls spring out, making my head look like a K-9 agility course full of rings.