Locks of Love

As I've mentioned before, I don't have a go-to haircut.

And when I start to get frustrated with what to do with the mop of always thinning, always graying, always retreating hair on my head, I have one course of action:

Shave it all off.

So thats what I did. I went to the barber and got myself a nice buzz cut. With my beard and new short doo, I look like a cast member from Prison Break, only I can act.

But during my visit to the hair cuttery, the barber made an...alarming...comment.

Just as I was checking out (and after I had already tipped him) he held up a bottle to me.

"Hey, this stuff really helps guys with thinning hair."

I was confused. Did he think I needed that for a friend? Is it close to Christmas and I just forgot? Is my beard thinning out?

Then it hit me. I'm balding.

I knew I had a widow's peak. My hair is retreating away from my face so fast I thought it had to be French. And I have quite a few grays for a kid that turns 28 this week.

But BALDING?

My Dad has a nice head of hair - and I inherited his ridiculous 70's wave that makes me look like a Justin Beiber fan if my hair gets past my forehead. So if he has hair, I have to be keeping mine, right? RIGHT!??! TELL ME, READER.

Sorry.

So when I arrived back home, I was a bit...emotional. I thought I was destined to have more hair on my chinny-chin chin than on my head.

Looking for support, I asked my wife for her opinion.

She took a few steps back, looked at my head, took a few steps to the left, to the right - got a view from every angle and vantage point.

Then she tilted her head to the side, looked me in the eye and said...

"Man, your nose is HUUUUGE!"

Thanks for the support, Honey.

Shop Till You Drop

I would really like to blog more often, the problem is that I'm just way too fucking boring.

I used to have all kinds of great stories and strong opinions - and when I didn't have that I was at least a really good liar.

Now? Now, I'm just lazy.

You know those old guys that fall asleep on the benches at malls? The ones whose lives are so boring that they have nothing better to do than sleep on a public bench while their wife tries to track down that great sale at Macys?

I'm that guy.

I nap at the mall all the time. It is something of a hobby for me at this point. I practically pass out the second my wife asks for my opinion about that frilly top.

Besides, she knows that frilly top totally wasn't my color.

Splitting Hairs

There are a few things a man should have as he nears his 30's.

A suit.

A 401k.

A set of tools.

And - a haircut.

I don't have a haircut.

That doesn't mean I don't GET haircuts. I get haircuts all the time, and the people who cut my hair do a great job.

But I don't have a "look". Sometimes I get it cut short, sometimes I let it grow, sometimes I spike it up, sometimes I comb it to the side, sometimes I put my left arm in, I take my left arm out, I put my left arm in and I shake it all about.

By the time a guy hits 30, he normally has the haircut he'll have for the rest of his life.

I turn 28 in two weeks, and I don't have that haircut. I'm going to go through the rest of my life constantly changing haircuts like those awkward 50 yr old guys that suddenly grow a goatee - except in my case, I'll be rocking jorts, white tube socks and the Flock of Seagulls haircut.

Then I'd just have my suit, 401k and be a total tool.

Office Party

Know what would be the best part of being a professional athlete?

All the chicks.

But the second best part is that every single year has a goal and a form of measurement. Athletes know where they stand at all times.

If you ask an athlete if they had a good year last year, they can provide statistical evidence that they had a good year. That has to be convenient. Imagine how much nicer it would be for them when they awkwardly meet co-workers at the copy machine.

"Hey man, how's it going?"

"We won and I had a good game."

That has to feel amazing. I can't quantify the fact that I had breakfast for dinner and then pulled weeds for two hours last night. It just doesn't translate. Even if I try to come off sounding like a winner, it makes me that much more of a loser.

It also has to be great for remembering big events. I honestly have no idea when I bought my house. It was between 1994-2015. But for athletes, they have automatic reminders for each year. It is much easier to say, "Oh, I remember that, it was right after we won the championship" than it is to say, "Oh, I remember that, I had just sat in an office for 40 hours that week."

But best of all, athletes have singular moments of joy and celebration. In the real world, there is no comparison. Even a promotion isn't necessarily a singular moment of joy - it is the realization that you are now going to have to work even harder.

I think offices should institute some kind of celebration. Like, the Friday before a long weekend, at 4:30 everyone just goes nuts. Poppin' champagne, droppin' confetti, bangin' the secretary. The whole nine yards.

At least then we'd have something to talk about around the copier.

Teenage Suburban White Girls

Can you imagine how hard life is for teenage suburban white girls?

Can you fathom the decisions they have to make on a daily basis?

Guys have it easy - they spend their time playing sports and fighting acne. They're so young and naive.

But teenage suburban white girls aren't afforded that luxury. They don't get to have an adolescence.

Because when a girl hits 16, she gets more than a driver's license - she gets her first shot at the business world.

She has major decisions: does she get pregnant so she can have a TV show? Or does she wait till she's 18 so she can sell her sex tape?

It's too bad life is unfair to the poor teenage suburban white girl, because if the legal age were 16, she could kill two birds with one stone.

Yes, I'm glad I never had to deal with the stress of people wanting to see my sex tape.

Of course, that could have been because of the acne.

Brush With Death

I've mentioned before how my wife is the Enemy of Routine. And also how we like to share.

But it has officially gone to far.

She used my toothbrush.

And, honestly? That isn't a big deal. We do that all the time on vacations and when role playing about being a naughty dentist...

...but by using my toothbrush, she forced me into a terrible decision:

I walk into the bathroom, notice that there are two toothbrushes - mine, which has just been used, and hers.

Which do I use?

Do I use mine? Even though it is still wet from having been used by her?

Do I use hers? Even though she eats disgusting things like carrots?

What kinds of germs are toothbrush germs? Are they fresh and short-term - waiting on the newly wettened bristles of my own dear toothbrush?

Or do they fester after months of use - building strength and organizing like an army of food bits and morning breath?

And that is just too much thinking first thing in the morning. I want the first question I answer in the morning to be, "How handsome is too handsome, and have I crossed that line?" - not risking mouth-death over the wrong choice of toothbrush.

After contemplation, I decided to use her toothbrush.

But the whole situation left a bad taste in my mouth.