Category Archives: Hair

Wierded Bunder

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Beard

I can’t afford a Porsche. My home life is good. So what’s a slumping middle aged fart to do?  Grow a beard naturally.  Quickly becoming one of the dumbest moves of my life; one that leaves me scratching my face wondering how countless males over thousands of years indulge in what I am finding to be a facial fiasco.

There is really no serious backstory to my latest indulgence.  I went on vacation for a week, didn’t shave, saw a picture of Michael Stipe online and thought, to myself; man, something like that would drive my mother nuts.  In reality, she could not care less, but clearly I am harboring deep childhood resentments; and while the idea of growing a beard is quite manly, I am finding it quite childlike in oh, so many ways.

Friend: “So, you are growing a beard?”

Me: “Just channeling my inner Hemingway,”  (can’t you tell by the quality of these prose?)

There are many aspects to this new endeavor that leave me scratching my face (including scratching my face).  For starters, my upper lip has become a pulp filter for  my daily glass of OJ.  And I like a little pulp.

Additionally, at my age, I have an ongoing battle with the hair growing out of my nose.  Now I have to contend with it growing up my nose.  To make matters worse, it feels like there are spiders crawling up my nose.  It does kind of tickle but terrifying when it wakes me up in the middle of the night.

And how the heck does anyone manage one of these things come winter and more specifically, cold season?  Are there even enough hankies to deal with the drip?  If mine lasts that long, there might be another article in the offing.

My lower lip is becoming like cactus.  The constant prickling into my upper lip finally drove me to break out the razor on my lower lip.  I was in constant fear of cutting my lower lip in the process.  Just thinking about the pruning makes my flesh crawl.

And what about wild hairs?  Vanity and desire not to be confused with Ted Kaczynski, Charles Manson or white supremacists,  is preventing me from going full Grizzly Adams on this thing.  I thought shaving was a pain in the ass, but pruning is far more dangerous and time consuming.  Shaving around the edges is proving to require the steady hands of a brain surgeon.  I am not a brain surgeon.  I am shaving 1% of the area, yet my cut ratio has gone up 50%.

My face has become the bread basket of the world.  Besides a gathering spot for orange pulp, it’s like fly paper for bread crumbs, hamburger juice, condiments, dressings, and pretty much anything else that does not enter my mouth via a straw.  Domino’s kitchen sink pizza’s got nothing on my face.  And it’s not just food, when I go outside, the thing is like a shrimper’s net, hauling in all kinds of flotsam and jetsam.

When it gets wet, it stays wet.  I suppose I should have anticipated this.  Drying the mop after bathing is not too bad, but as soon as I set foot into the 98% heat and 100% humidity of the sunny south, my empathy for Samoyed’s goes off the charts.  At least Samoyeds are cute.  I have no excuse for the sweat dripping pizza hanging off my face. It is as if my face has sprung a leak.

And what is going on under all this fur?  Is my complexion returning to that nightmarish wreck that was my face from the ages of 15 through 20?  The Horror. The Horror.  And what about nits?  Am I going to have to buy a monkey to pick the critters off my face?

Certainly, there are some reasonable arguments for the beard.  At least, unlike my (regrettable) tatoo,  when I can’t stand it anymore, I can go buy some Proactiv and a new razor and get rid of it.

So how long will my indulgence last?  Hemingway’s beard did not end well.  But that Michael Stipe thing?

Maybe I’ll let my mom decide.

 

 

 

 

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Super Hero or Villain? Please, Please, Please.

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Seems like every summer we catch a wave of jacked up comic books at our local theaters where, for about $60, two people can explode, chase, battle, scheme, swing, launch, fly, blast, swim their way through nearly 120 minutes of saturated popcorn and a bladder expanding soda.  Heck, for $2.50 I practically get that riding the subway to work each day, plus, for no extra charge, it comes in odorama, which, thankfully is hard to duplicate on the big screen.

But what of these “super” heroes and villains?  It’s got me to thinking…

A man who is a spider.  Does he take all his meals through a straw?

A man who is a bat? Lazy bum sleeps all day.

A girl who is a bat?  Seriously, how does one tell the difference?  Boobs?

A man who is made of Iron.  Now that’s just absurd.  He’d be house bound like those with morbid eating disorders.

A man who is an ant.  Wouldn’t think twice about stepping on him.

Captains Marvel, Universe,  America, Planet, etc., etc., etc.  Why just Captains?  Why never promoted?

And what about the Doctor’s?

Dr. Strange.   “Yes, I’d like to make appointment with my gynecologist…Dr. Strange.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Octopus is unavailable.  He’s in surgeries right now…”

“Yes, I need to get my Prozac refilled, could you please ask Dr. Doom to call that in for me?”

Dr. Manhattan. What, is his specialty, Mixology or something?

A man made of plastic.  Perhaps he could be sent to do something about the Pacific Ocean’s Trash Vortex?

The Flash.  Why am I seeing all of those black spots?

Robin. Poor fella.

A man who is Super.  Popular on Pride Day no doubt.

Man of steel (see man made of Iron above).

Two-Face.  Yep, knew him in high school.

A woman who is a Wonder.  Now that is one I completely get.

Hey, as far as I am concerned, the only Caped Crusader I care about is:

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Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please… Rinse, lather repeat.

It’s a bird.  It’s a plane.  Good God. it’s Soul Brother #1, the Godfather of soul, Mr. Dynamite, Mr. Please, Please, Please. Jaaaaaaaaaaaaames Brown. Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaames Brown.  Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaames Brown.  Superhero of Soul, Funk, Rock and Roll.

Gimme a lot of hair, long beautiful hair

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My friends, it is high time we talk about hair. I’m talking the hair on the tippy top of your head: that silky, lovely, wonderful substance that we so meticulously care for. The stuff that, on a good day, makes you walk around doing something a little like this:

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Now, several months ago I purchased a brand new, spiffy, top-of-the-line rug from…where? You guessed it. Where broke people of all ages and nationalities buy their apartment items: Ikea.

My new rug, while cheap, is a wonderful and glorious addition to my room. However, after a few months, it had retained many dark spots of (what I assumed to be) dirt and dust, and I decided to get off my laurels and vacuum the damn thing. If only I had been mentally prepared for the horrors I was about to unearth.

My friends, as I began to vacuum, I noticed the spots of dirt were refusing to be sucked up into the vast caverns of the vacuum. After several puzzling minutes, I was forced to get down on my hands and knees and attempt to solve the mystery of the obstinate dirt.

What I found, to my appall, was that the dark clumps were not, in fact, merely dirt. They were ACTUALLY sneaky, stringy strands of hair, covered in dirt and dust, and mired into the fibers of my rug. Thus causing a reaction very similar to this:

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It was as though these lovely, wavy golden strands of hair had executed a suicide leap from my scalp and made it their ultimate final mission to cling to my rug (and anything else they could find) with all the strength they could muster. They had failed their previous master in the task of hanging on to my poor little head and were therefore determined to be dutiful and most dedicated disciples to my rug.

It was truly shocking. These knotted, nasty clumps bore no recognizable resemblance to my healthy locks. It was the transformation of a lifetime, somewhat akin to Mulan. In case you are unfamiliar, in said film, the title character cuts off her hair, disguises herself as a male solider, and saves China. Comparably, my hair had forcibly removed itself from my head, disguised itself as innocent flecks of dust, and saved my rug from coming in contact with, you know, actual feet by becoming a protective LAYER over the exposed weave.

I truly didn’t know it was even possible to lose such a revolting amount of hair in such a ridiculously short time. You would think I had gone completely bald by the amount of hair that was (ultimately) in that vacuum. Or perhaps you would think I was attempting to fashion some sort of disgusting, caveman-esque costume wig that would cover my ENTIRE HEAD. Gross, friends. Gross.

The moral of the story is two-fold: one, vacuum often. Two, be kind to your hair. Otherwise it will abandon you, betray you, and pledge its allegiance to your Ikea rug.