Every morning I wake up with Don King hair. I’m not talking bedhead, I’m talking porcupine hair trying to break the surly bonds of earth. No matter how I sleep, when I stumble into the bathroom and look in the mirror, my hair is sticking straight up, reaching for the ceiling like it’s being robbed.
Imagine a white, untamable Mohawk. Nothing deters the verticality. It is ridiculous. I have to stand under a pounding deluge in the shower to beat it down. Brushes are no match for it. It rises, Mark Twainian, from the top of my head during the day. Einstein had nothing on me, well, except what was under his hair.
Just as bad are the Farrah-Fawcett-in-the-poster-from-the-1970’s kind of wings. They lift off from the sides of my head curling upwards, attempting to keep up with the hair on the top that appears to be trying to leap off. Quite a bit of my hair has successfully leaped. Maybe this is the final follicle frontier before Rogaine Country.
If I thought more about my hair, maybe it would look better. I haven’t been to a barber shop in more than thirteen years. I estimate that I have saved approximately $5,304.00 so far. The way I see it, there are two styles, long and short, and I am capable of butchering them both myself. I shouldn’t complain too much about the Alfalfa protrusions; I have friends whose hair departed years ago. Mine just acts up and makes people whisper Sonic The Hedgehog jokes.
I saw a show on Bravo (not that I watch Bravo, mind you, I was flipping channels, really, I was) explaining how rock stars use gels and teasing to yank a standing knot in their locks. What a waste of time. At my house, all you have to do it lay on a pillow and it goes from zero to Whitesnake in 1.2 seconds. Is there such a thing as the Unruly Hair Club For Men?
