Something Happened To My Head, Please Send Help
Nice hair. Pfff. It’s deserting me. Leaving me to twist, incomplete, in the wind. Like an asshole.
My hair is thinning, which is a euphemism for, “I’m fuckin’ going bald over here.” It started a handful of years back, when a balding patch appeared in the front. Then, mysteriously, that patch reversed course and actually started to regrow hair. No idea why. Sure, I was slathering my scalp with uranium shampoo, but I don’t think that had anything to do with it. That’s just ’cause I dig the smell of uranium. And neck tumors. I really like neck tumors.
My traitorous hair (it’s so nice! shut up!) obviously figured that, since it had lost the battle in the front of my head, it would perform a flank attack. A surprise flank attack, because you know how often you look at the top-slash-back of your head? Never. You have no reason to look there. Unless you have a room made of mirrors, it’s just not happening.
So, of course, this secret, sacred place became the staging ground for a new assault on my dome. And now, I have a not-unreasonable and ever-spreading patch of nega-hair (sounds cooler than “baldness”) back there. The emptiness has set up shop. Hairblivion is here to stay.
Which leads me to–
We have a new hairstylist. The wife and I went to this other place for a while, and that woman was obsessed with giving my wife Jersey Hair — seriously, hair so big it could catch seagulls. Worse, this last lady was messy. I’d come home bristly with my own trimmings, driven mad by the itchy little fuckers hiding in my shirt collars. Fuck this, we said. Solidarity. Time to find a new lady.
The new hairstylist kind of hinted, without being mean, that she could adjust my current hairstyle so I didn’t look so… meager up top. Fine, good, yes, let’s do it. My only other option was a scorched earth policy — just raze the castles, upend the trees, slaughter the innocents, and salt the soil so nothing may grow. I figured before I weed whacked my skull to a gleaming sheen, it seemed a good idea to engage in a few interim steps.
So, here we are. That picture up yonder isn’t a good one, partly because of the angle, and partly because I was using that image to eff-around with some filter processes in Photoshop (dupe the layer, then desaturate the new layer, then fuzz the new layer with a Gaussian Blur of 4-5, then slap on an Overlay filter, adjust the transparency, merge, then slap on either a cyan or a yellow filter depending on the tone of the image).
The basic gist of the new haircut is — “order out of chaos.” Intentionally messy hipster hair or whatever. I think my wife called it “writer” hair. Problem is, I don’t know how to replicate it! The hairstylist lady gave me a quick and completely non-scientific tutorial, performed mostly with hand gestures and sound effects. “Flatten it, do this, voop, then jhuj it up like this. Voila.”
Well, goddamn, I don’t know how to do that. I spent like a half-hour yesterday just trying to make my hair look half-messy on purpose. And I couldn’t do it! After that much time, I achieved a half-ass approximation, and then my wife came home and picked at my head for a minute like a Mother Baboon fetching mites from her Baboon Baby. Needless to say, she got it a lot closer.
Part of me wondered: do I have the wrong product? The lady tried to sell me some kind of sculpting putty, which sounds like I’d use it to caulk a tub, not my head. But then New Friend Julie said, “Don’t fall for the product ruse — it’s a trap!” and gesticulated wildly at me. So, at present, I’m just using… I dunno. Some kind of generic gel product. Should I be using something different? Hair spray? Mousse? Elmer’s Glue? Bat guano? Uranium?
Let it be said that this is a warning to my hair:
Hair, don’t mess with me. You best comply, lest you be selected for eradication. I will murder you while you lay fettered to my skull meat, and I will let the beard be the champion of my head, and my beard shall dine upon your suffering. The End.