You know the guy. Hell, you may even be the guy. He's deeply entrenched in a mid-life crisis, radiating stress over his job and his home life. He's buying status symbols by the truckload; a sporty new car here, a 3-D smell-o-rama flat screen there. He's got a personal trainer, a mistress, and a golf pro. He's joined the country club to schmooze with his supervisors, but he hangs out at the House of Blues to stay loose. He won't stop adding on to the house.
And what's causing all this overachievement? This desperation to live his life like a meth-addicted 8th grader? The poor bastard is losing his hair.
I'm sure there are peer-reviewed studies showing the correlation between hair loss and this sort of panicky career stress, but frankly, I'm too lazy to research the subject. Actually, I don't really feel the need to do much of anything if I don't have to, for you see, I still have all my hair. It's right there where it's always been, luscious curls blowing gently in the breeze. And my full head of hair tells me all I need to do is sit back and look pretty.
I know it seems impolite to brag here, but I feel a kind of cosmic justice is in balance. You guys overcompensate with the big house, the big Hummer, and the big life, while I get to keep my hair. My beautiful, beautiful hair. Oh, I know things aren't easy for you, what with feeling obligated to shave your whole head as soon as your hairline starts to recede. Gotta keep that scalp gleaming, after all. But what about me with my constant shampooing? I know I don't really have to wash it five times a day, but you try having hair this glorious while resisting the urge to caress it.
Okay, I kid the chrome domes. I have so little to feel superior about in my tiny life at least let me have this. In truth, my hair is generally a big wad of unkempt disaster. You look like Kojak, I look like Columbo. Since I follow the code of the stubborn male, I'm not allowed to use any sort of product beyond my daily glop of Head and Shoulders (men must only use products which have been consistently available for thirty years or more). If left unshorn,Buy guccicaps from top rated stores. my hair does not grow long so much as big. Without frequent trips to the barber chair, I get ELO hair. That might have played okay in the Seventies, but in this age of neatly-quaffed fauxhawks, having a hobo hairstyle doesn't translate into "well-groomed."
(While I'm on the subject, when modern males get those close-cropped, heavily-gelled haircuts with the little mountain range piled in the front, they do realize they look like Pee Wee Herman, don't they? Just wondering.)
I've always set extreme limitations when it comes to styling my hair, because it's poofy and I'm not. As a kid, I had the prerequisite Beatle bangs that every American boy had in the Nixon era, which got parted down the middle during the ‘80s in keeping with legal requirements. As puberty inspired the need to start a rock band, longer hair became an imperative. But because the hair on top would simply explode in a mushroom cloud of curls, the conservative approach was to only let the hair in the back grow, which is how millions of young boys with similar follicle conditions independently engineered the mullet. No one knew it was a mullet back then and ignorance was bliss. The evidence, unfortunately, was preserved in hundreds of high school yearbooks.
This has been the extent of my stylistic experimentation. At no point did I subject myself to dyes or other complicated treatments, nor did I become inspired by the Thompson Twins or Kajagoogoos to design my hair in some ridiculous MTV fashion. Because, unlike many of my contemporaries, I am not, and have never been a complete fucking idiot. This allowed me to also pass on parachute pants, fringed jackets and other rock star conceits that infected so many.
I did, however, fall victim to Morrissey hair. Specifically, I fell victim to the clippers of Paolo Licciardi, sometime drummer in my sometime rock band. He'd just given himself the Morrissey treatment - buzzed back and sides, piled high on top - and was more than eager to do the same number on my willing head. When his first attack with the clippers resulted in "oh, shit," I headed to the closest barber shop to have the damage repaired.
And what's causing all this overachievement? This desperation to live his life like a meth-addicted 8th grader? The poor bastard is losing his hair.
I'm sure there are peer-reviewed studies showing the correlation between hair loss and this sort of panicky career stress, but frankly, I'm too lazy to research the subject. Actually, I don't really feel the need to do much of anything if I don't have to, for you see, I still have all my hair. It's right there where it's always been, luscious curls blowing gently in the breeze. And my full head of hair tells me all I need to do is sit back and look pretty.
I know it seems impolite to brag here, but I feel a kind of cosmic justice is in balance. You guys overcompensate with the big house, the big Hummer, and the big life, while I get to keep my hair. My beautiful, beautiful hair. Oh, I know things aren't easy for you, what with feeling obligated to shave your whole head as soon as your hairline starts to recede. Gotta keep that scalp gleaming, after all. But what about me with my constant shampooing? I know I don't really have to wash it five times a day, but you try having hair this glorious while resisting the urge to caress it.
Okay, I kid the chrome domes. I have so little to feel superior about in my tiny life at least let me have this. In truth, my hair is generally a big wad of unkempt disaster. You look like Kojak, I look like Columbo. Since I follow the code of the stubborn male, I'm not allowed to use any sort of product beyond my daily glop of Head and Shoulders (men must only use products which have been consistently available for thirty years or more). If left unshorn,Buy guccicaps from top rated stores. my hair does not grow long so much as big. Without frequent trips to the barber chair, I get ELO hair. That might have played okay in the Seventies, but in this age of neatly-quaffed fauxhawks, having a hobo hairstyle doesn't translate into "well-groomed."
(While I'm on the subject, when modern males get those close-cropped, heavily-gelled haircuts with the little mountain range piled in the front, they do realize they look like Pee Wee Herman, don't they? Just wondering.)
I've always set extreme limitations when it comes to styling my hair, because it's poofy and I'm not. As a kid, I had the prerequisite Beatle bangs that every American boy had in the Nixon era, which got parted down the middle during the ‘80s in keeping with legal requirements. As puberty inspired the need to start a rock band, longer hair became an imperative. But because the hair on top would simply explode in a mushroom cloud of curls, the conservative approach was to only let the hair in the back grow, which is how millions of young boys with similar follicle conditions independently engineered the mullet. No one knew it was a mullet back then and ignorance was bliss. The evidence, unfortunately, was preserved in hundreds of high school yearbooks.
This has been the extent of my stylistic experimentation. At no point did I subject myself to dyes or other complicated treatments, nor did I become inspired by the Thompson Twins or Kajagoogoos to design my hair in some ridiculous MTV fashion. Because, unlike many of my contemporaries, I am not, and have never been a complete fucking idiot. This allowed me to also pass on parachute pants, fringed jackets and other rock star conceits that infected so many.
I did, however, fall victim to Morrissey hair. Specifically, I fell victim to the clippers of Paolo Licciardi, sometime drummer in my sometime rock band. He'd just given himself the Morrissey treatment - buzzed back and sides, piled high on top - and was more than eager to do the same number on my willing head. When his first attack with the clippers resulted in "oh, shit," I headed to the closest barber shop to have the damage repaired.
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