Jim’s second not quite voluntary haircut occurred years later. Once again, it was an act of acquiescence. Of getting back on track after being unexpectedly derailed. Blindsided one night around a campfire by a lake, when a door he’d believed was sealed shut had suddenly been flung open.

Problem was he’d attempted to cross that threshold before. It had been impenetrable. It had been awful. He wouldn’t have wished that on his worst enemy - and that included himself.

So, this time, Jim had done the sensible thing – made a conscious decision to stick with the program. He was lucky to have Karen, lucky she still wanted him on her team despite his less than stellar performance as a boyfriend. Like all his coaches had told him, the thing was not to over-think it. He knew the drill: all he had to do was follow her lead and memorize the plays. There was even a uniform, though his expensive new suit and tie were considerably less comfortable than his old basketball shorts and jersey.  

All week, he’d watched Karen struggle to pretend everything was fine. That they were still – had ever been - poised to win. Together. As good as her game face was, however, the score was painfully obvious. He tried to reassure her, but she wasn’t one for vagaries. So, when she said she thought he should get a haircut, he didn’t resist.

‘You want Wallace to hire you, not throw a quarter in your cup, right?’ she’d teased him. ‘Cause you’ve got a serious homeless thing going on with that hair, Halpert.’

It seemed to make her happy to arrange it, to watch his new corporate image emerge as piles of his hair accumulated on the salon floor (no more ordinary barbershops.) He was just relieved to see her smile again. He owed her that; at least that. It was only hair, after all. 

He’d quite literally played ball with the CEO before, he could do it again. He figured if he kept feigning interest, eventually he’d stop feeling like he was dressed and groomed to play a part. He’d actually become that guy. It was a proven fact: with practice, you can become a better shooter. He concentrated on ignoring something he also knew to be true: certain things, like a great jump shot, are simply in your bones. You can’t will them into being. Nor can you talk yourself in or out of love. He worked hard at not knowing that either.

Funny thing about that haircut. When it was finished, Karen and the hairdresser stood back beaming, admiring how ‘sophisticated’ Jim now appeared. But when he looked in the mirror, all he saw reflected there was himself as a child, after his mother had licked her palm and smoothed away the cowlicks in his freshly cut big-boy hair, making him look ‘presentable’ enough to go to a church youth group mixer or to a Boy Scout awards ceremony. Someplace he knew he didn’t really belong. 

Karen knew how to play the game. She cared about him. She knew what was best.