Looking at my hair, aren’t you? I’m getting that a lot lately. It’s so random in this halfway stage. I don’t know, do I casually tuck it behind an ear? Both ears? Do I flip it around like this, or slowly run my hand through it front to back? I’m one of those guys who like, never looks in a mirror.

I’m not supposed to say anything, but I’m growing it out for a gig. Nothing major, just an acting thing. I assume Jake told you I’m an actor? Yeah, it’s so embarrassing how proud my friends are of me sometimes. I’m like, I should be envying you guys, with your stability and like, normal normalness, normalcy and so on.

It’s not usually this long, but my agent—listen to me, “my agent,” I’m the worst—my agent and management, my team or whatever, was like it’s totally so important to be able to grow your hair out, in case they want you to play, you know, like lost at sea. Stranded on an island, no razors or barbers, or any way to schedule an appointment.

I love stuff like that, actors going full method. The craft. The art. The work. The sacrifice. You’d be so bored if I went into my technique; you’d be all, “This guy is so random what even,” but you know like, for a Musketeer, or a caveman, or a Shakespeare something. Romeo’s friend? For Romeo’s friend, or the guy who’s like “ROMEO DO NOT” the director might picture an actor with longer hair, and it’s important they know I can come through for them, with enough notice.

Right now it’s chin-length, which is totally castable, for a dog walker, or friend on a couch, or a male nanny who makes a husband jealous. Once it’s shoulder-length though, look out, everything really opens up. Hair that long, I could play a rock star, either fictional or real or thinly veiled or maybe deceased with like, biopic continuity errors. Maybe I’m a zombie that shows like, it really takes all types, you know, a zombie could be anyone. Or a character in a war, maybe one of the old wars, who’s like, missing, on the other side, up a tree and so on. I can grow sideburns too, I assume.

Long hair signals to a casting director, “This guy is brave. He goes for it. He commits.” They see me on a self-tape or a Zoom, studio parking lot, back and forth outside a restaurant window, and they know, there he is. There’s our vampire, but a modern kind that would like, ride a motorcycle, almost kiss a guy, no big deal. We finally found him, our astronaut who’s really going through it; the new Thor; a small-town mechanic who wins over a beautiful snob; the shrooms-haver at a college rager; the coolest groomsman; the new Thor’s brother.

I have my doubters, obviously, my critics: family members, acting teachers, everybody on Hinge, but I don’t listen to that noise. I try to just keep moving forward, learning, creating, conditioning. I like to think of my hair as the ultimate scene partner, blowing heroically behind me on horseback, hanging sadly in my eyes during a rainstorm, thoughtfully center-parted for making out.

My main thing is longevity. Not just hair longevity, but like, length of career, years-wise. If I play the long-hair brother who’s like, “Let’s skip school,” I don’t want people thinking I can’t play the brother who’s like, “No, let’s hit the books. We have to save Mom’s business,” because I have a shorter-hair intellectual side too—you just can’t picture it right now at chin-length. Eventually I’ll have head shots with both options. Saving up.

My current piece is more grounded. More earthy, and rooted, and you know, of the ground. But I’m up for anything. The weirder the better. Werewolf, time traveler, youth pastor. I’ll rock a man-bun and play a computer expert, hack into the mainframe at the last second, save the day. A blacksmith in a low pony? A tennis pro in a sweatband? An old-time Jane Austen boyfriend with chunky highlights? I’m your guy. You need a patient on moderate to severe migraine meds having a great time at the park throwing a Frisbee and laughing it up with his buds?

Not anymore you don’t.