|
I didn’t think I would have trouble adjusting to being a civilian. I thought that I would get out, put the military behind me, and move on with my life. And, in part, that is what I have done.
Interestingly enough, it’s the small things with which I am having trouble adjusting. I’ll be quite honest, I hated wearing the uniform, especially blues. But it was something I got used to, and I knew what I had to wear what day--blues on Monday and ABUs the rest of the week (or when deployed, just straight ABUs, with the occasional gas mask for exercises). Now I have to make choices. That sucks. If it was up to me, I would probably wear the same things again and again, which might explain why one of my Pawleys Island T-shirts sort of reads Pa ys la .
And haircuts. Again, I thought, yay, I’m out, long hair in a ponytail or something, but I discovered I can’t stand my hair too long. But I also can’t stand to pay 15 bucks for something I used to get for less than seven dollars (and which generally is a pretty simple haircut to do). My wife has cut my hair a couple of times and done a decent job, but as she has pointed out, I have frustrating hair, with cowlicks multiplying like Tribbles.
I also have a problem with shaving. I tried the full beard (about 10 percent of the way to a full ZZ Top), and that wasn’t working. Then I tried the goatee, and that wasn’t working (plus my wife has fought any facial hair I had). I did the clean-shaven thing a few weeks ago, and I rediscovered that I hate shaving. Right now, I’m thinking shave it once a week, and the rest of the time just let it grow out.
But...I get to be a part of my daughter’s life every day. I get to go to school and learn new things. I get to have my own home, without being concerned that in a few years I might have to move again. I get to wear an earring again (and yet, even after being retired for about five months, I still haven’t).
I don’t have to worry about writing Enlisted Performance Reports, satanic documents that disrupt and harangue the very English language. I don’t have to listen to some fatass, four-star-ass-kissing Captain threaten everybody on my shift with an Article 15 if something gets screwed up. I don’t have to work with (#name redacted#).
But I really wish I could figure out what to do with my facial hair. Fu manchu?
Interestingly enough, it’s the small things with which I am having trouble adjusting. I’ll be quite honest, I hated wearing the uniform, especially blues. But it was something I got used to, and I knew what I had to wear what day--blues on Monday and ABUs the rest of the week (or when deployed, just straight ABUs, with the occasional gas mask for exercises). Now I have to make choices. That sucks. If it was up to me, I would probably wear the same things again and again, which might explain why one of my Pawleys Island T-shirts sort of reads Pa ys la .
And haircuts. Again, I thought, yay, I’m out, long hair in a ponytail or something, but I discovered I can’t stand my hair too long. But I also can’t stand to pay 15 bucks for something I used to get for less than seven dollars (and which generally is a pretty simple haircut to do). My wife has cut my hair a couple of times and done a decent job, but as she has pointed out, I have frustrating hair, with cowlicks multiplying like Tribbles.
I also have a problem with shaving. I tried the full beard (about 10 percent of the way to a full ZZ Top), and that wasn’t working. Then I tried the goatee, and that wasn’t working (plus my wife has fought any facial hair I had). I did the clean-shaven thing a few weeks ago, and I rediscovered that I hate shaving. Right now, I’m thinking shave it once a week, and the rest of the time just let it grow out.
But...I get to be a part of my daughter’s life every day. I get to go to school and learn new things. I get to have my own home, without being concerned that in a few years I might have to move again. I get to wear an earring again (and yet, even after being retired for about five months, I still haven’t).
I don’t have to worry about writing Enlisted Performance Reports, satanic documents that disrupt and harangue the very English language. I don’t have to listen to some fatass, four-star-ass-kissing Captain threaten everybody on my shift with an Article 15 if something gets screwed up. I don’t have to work with (#name redacted#).
But I really wish I could figure out what to do with my facial hair. Fu manchu?
