Stupid Hair

-
Hello. 
[Wave.] 
Question for you: 
Are you happy with your hair? 
Really happy? 
Perfectly happy? 

[Assuming silence, replies of “No,” or boos:] 
Ah. 
So you hate 
your hair? 
You 
loathe, 
detest, 
or at least 
disagree, 
vehemently, 
with it? 

[Assuming applause and/or cheers:] 
Well, in that case, 
perhaps we’ll bond 
over this next bit… 

[ALT. I: Assuming cheers, replies of “Yes,” and/or applause:] 
So you’re happy 
— completely happy —
with your hair,
huh? Mm? Eh? 

What do you
love 
most 
about 
your hair? 

[Repeat answer(s).] 
Ah. Yes, I can see that. 
[Lean in.] 
Just between the two of us, 
I envy your hair. 
May I borrow it? 

[Assuming “No.”] 
Smart choice. 
I might not give it back. 

Would you please stand, 
so that 
everybody
can 
marvel 
at your 
exceptional 
head of hair? 

[If “No,” then say, “Dude, take it from me: Flaunt it while you’ve got it.”] 

[Assuming he/she/they stand(s):] 
Everybody: 
Please: 
“give it up” for 
the person [or: people] 
with full 
confidence 
in their hair! 
That’s right: Flaunt it while you’ve got it! 

[ALT. II: assuming the responses run the gamut:] 
Yup.
Sounds about right. 
(Un)like some 
(most) of you, 
I am at war 
with my hair. 
At least from the 
neck up, 
I am. 

I’ll admit that I’ve
surrendered 
my back to the 
Follicle Forces 
that be. 
But there’s been 
no 
lasting peace. 

My hair plots, 
conspires, 
machinates, 
against 
me. 

Instead of staying up top 
[point to the balding crown], 
it’s more interested 
in sprouting 
from my 
ears, 
nose, 
and... 
butt cheeks. 

Shaving it off 
of my face 
is an ordeal. 

My hair likes to play 
Hide and Go Seek 
with the 
razor blade; 
and the 
razor blade 
ends up playing 
Jack the Ripper 
with my neck. 
(That was an embellishment, 
for your amusement.) 

My father wasn’t around to teach me how to shave. My stepfather sported a beard. And so I had to learn to shave by trial and error, which was more like trial by fire. Either way, you could say that the judge was bribed, the jury was hung, and my attorney was disbarred. 

Sure, 
I could “raise” 
a beard. 
But whenever I do, 
it looks like ass. 

I’m not saying that my
facial hair 
(when I’ve allowed it), 
resembles my rump. 

No, 
I chose “ass” 
for the same reason 
that a thoroughly 
walloped 
boxer 
might look like 
“shit” 
following several rounds
with 
Mike Tyson. 

And, no, 
I am not suggesting 
that the 
visage 
of the 
walloped one is 
nearly identical 
to fecal matter. 

You know what I mean. 
If not… 
I’m happy to 
elaborate 
further. 
Send me a… 
tweet 
or something. 

Yeah, so, 
shaving my neck? 
It’s a pain in the ass
and 
shaving my ass… 
is an 
actual 
pain in the neck. 
[Demonstrate — that is, via pantomime.] 

And when I give in 
(or give up) 
and grow out 
my beard, 
it always gets
itchy… 
not unlike my ass. 
But it’s not the end of the world, 
unless my beard 
smells
like 
ass. 
(If it does, I haven’t noticed.) 

Believe me, 
if I let my hair 
(what’s left of it) 
grow out on top,
I’ll end up looking 
worse
than a 
feral Chia Pet. 
So instead of 
“Cha-Cha-Cha-Chia,” 
it’s more like 
[fiendishly, perhaps:] 
“Cha-Cha-Cha-Chia,” 
which sounds more 
like a 
zombie chia 
than a 
feral chia. 

My apologies. 

But my hair won’t behave 
unless I slather it 
with styling goop. 

If I forgo the goop, 
it will invariably 
revert 
to its 
natural state, 
which,
no matter how much I 
comb or 
brush it, 
is commonly known 
as “bed head.” 

This isn’t to say that
I’m happy 
with the way 
it looks
now. 
[I.e. a DIY “buzz” cut.] 
But it’s very low maintenance. 
It makes me look 
like a tough guy, 
a little villainous. 
And that’s fine. 

I’ve never really succeeded 
in intimidating anybody.
But I think this “look” helps. 
[I.e. the DIY “buzz” cut.]
With this “style,"
I feel I’ve won the 
battle 
for the top 
of my head. 
Only now that 
that’s happened, 
my hair is in full retreat. 

But it’s nice that I’m well on my way to looking a little more like Yul Brynner, or Telly Savalas, or Patrick Stewart, or Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, or Vin Diesel or Mr. Clean… 
but 
with a 
pasty 
complexion 
and a 
dinky 
Irish nose. 

Otherwise, with the rest of it, I’m constantly pruning and pulling or shaving. I hate it. Since puberty, hair management has taken up way too much of my life. We have smart phones and smart watches and smart toothbrushes. Where’s my smart hair? 

True, smart hair will put barbers out of business. But consider: Whenever you give smarts to anything that doesn’t already have it, you’re asking for trouble. There’s a reason rocks are dumb. 

No doubt you’re thinking, 
“Jesus Christ, 
is this guy’s entire act 
about his hair?” 

And think what you will, 
but speaking of Christ, 
he let it grow. 

And it worked. 

So he’d be a good one to ask. 
I mean, 
if you’re gonna be 
the Messiah, 
then rule number one? 
Maybe steer clear of the 
Supercuts 
(or Sport Cuts or Great Clips or Hair Cuttery, or whichever franchised/chained barber’s shop occupies the nearest strip mall). 

But my world is 
small. 
I could easily squander 
an hour 
describing the one hair 
that keeps sprouting 
halfway 
up my nose — 
that one, 
right there. 
[Tap it.] 
Someday soon 
I’ll be too old 
and addled 
to 
pluck 
it 
out. 

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