The Free Thinker

I suck at hair. If hair was a game, I'd be in last place. If hair was a performance, I'd be boo'd off the stage. And if hair was sex, I'd accidentally fuck your ear.

I'm that bad.

To people who've known me in real life, this isn't news at all. Things have improved from my younger days, when I'd just let it grow until it got in my eyes, then head over to the Aunt's house for a fresh bowl cut. But it's still pretty bad.

I just don't know what to do with it. Do I spike it? Give it that messy look? How the hell do I get it to do those things anyways? My hair never seems to do what I want it to. If I want it up, it goes down. If I want it down, it goes up. It reminds me of when I couldn't control my erections in high school.

The funny thing is, I can clearly spot a guy who has nice hair, but when I'm trying to style it myself all my objectivity goes out the window and I can't tell the difference between Flock of Seagulls hair and something worthy of Tobey McGuire.

As a result I just leave the "fuzzball" most of the time. Unless a friend who can style hair is around. Then I make them do it. Of course this isn't a sustainable way to manage one's hair.

So what the hell should I do? Is there a class I can take? Does somebody want to mentor me?

In the meantime I took my usual cop-out. I took my hair, which I've been dutifully growing since Hallowe'en, and had the nice lady buzz it down to the height of an M&M. I've got that Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting look. Except it's not the eighties.

Anyways, I've won the battle for now. But the war isn't over until I'm bald or I can coif as well as the stereotypes say I should.

Image courtesy of Drawings Of Light - Paul.