Well, I got my hair cut the other day. I didn’t want to, but apparently my long hair needed to go.

A quorum of friends gave me an intervention, where they explained that the reason for my crushing loneliness and non-ability to score dates lay in the hair on my head.

“Long hair works for some people,” they explained. “You are not one of those people.”

Apparently, my long mane of bushy Greek hair makes me appear untrustworthy and unlikeable. My one buddy made it more clear: “The long hair by itself is not what makes you come off as skeezy. It’s the long hair on top of the face and unibrow that puts you over the edge.”

If I lived in Saudi Arabia, I would probably have one of the most trustworthy faces around. But seeing as I live in a clearly brow-prejudiced America, I suppose I have to conform.

The rare Spitzus Mustachius. Just add water.

So instead of getting the bushy mane styled by a skilled cosmetologist, the cheapskate in me went to a local barber who seemed to be conducting his haircuts like he was training for the 100 meter dash in haircuts.

In the time it took the other barbers to cut one head of hair, my guy cut three, one of which being mine, which required him to sharpen his scissors repeatedly and take out the sheep shears. When he was done, it looked like Cousin Itt had stepped on a landmine while passing by us.

And, seeing as the Unibrow considers Cousin Itt a close relative in the Hair Anomaly family, we were saddened. Mark Spitz’s mustache and Ron Jeremy’s ass-crack sent their condolences.

A young Ron Jeremy. Magnificence of Hair.

During my “haircut,” I must have spaced out. Or else it was hard to tell what type of haircut I was actually receiving, what with all the sparks flying. When he held up the mirror to the back of my head, I think I puked in my mouth a little.

I mean, what do you say at a time like that? It’s happened to me before and I feel like I’m being dared to actually speak my mind. I felt like asking him which one of his eyes was the glass one. Or perhaps if, with the brain tumor and all, he suffers from vertigo.

Had I killed this man’s chihuahua in another life?

Instead, I nodded politely.

“Yep. Now it’s all gone,” I said.

I even gave him a tip. I think I need to start going to a real stylist. The trouble is, the last time I went to a hair stylist we started dating and then I ruined it all by asking for too many free haircuts and product advice.

So, yeah. It’s a good thing I’m balding, I guess.

But don’t worry. For every bit of hair I lose on the top of my head, another bit of hair is added to The UniBrow. By the time I’m fifty, I’ll have a forehead that you can use as a putting green. And you’ll be able to tee off from the thicket of hair that has sprouted on the end of my nose.

You have nothing at stake here. Why not insult me?

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