After 119 posts, we’ve finally arrived at the dear old filamentous biomaterial growing from the follicles found in the dermis. Or, hair. Yes, hair. The good old Bonny Fair. The Barnet Fair. The Tony Blair. The Alf Garnet. The Fred Astaire. I’ll stop now. The Yogi Bear.
Yes, I do have rather long locks. For a few years now. One month, I looked in the mirror with my extremely short hair and I thought, ‘nah won’t get it cut this month’. The same thing happened the following month, only substitute the shorter hair with slightly longer hair. This process continued for quite some time until the realization dawned on me that I was starting to look like some drugged up hippy. So I immediately set about chopping the locks. But I couldn’t do it. They were rough, curly and manly. Attributes no human would give me. But time passed on, and my love affair with those locks dwindled. I went to the barbers and I said ‘number one all over my head’. In retrospect, what happened next was probably what I deserved.
This was over Christmas. I showed up to college in January to exasperated gasps and moans of ‘oh my God! What happened?’ If I’d known my peers liked it, I wouldn’t have had the number one. So I grew it again. Medium length, swished back over the top of my head. And I changed my clothes to something a little more rock to match the new do. And so I have stayed this way, ever since.
Strutting has never felt lither.
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