Having a massive head of hair has been one of the weirdest experiences of my life. Short of being hair-raped, the head-pubes have had more physical contact over the last 6 months than the rest of me has had in all my years on this planet.
Dancing in a night club = doing the migraine skank to avoid the hands of obsessed 30 year old women. Walking down the street = having ‘wiggle wiggle wiggle’ yelled at me by some thug’s nasty ‘missus’ from his sacked-out Ford Escort. Having a shower = pulling out long strands of hair from the drain with god-knows-what attached to the ends. Everyone compliments it and says it is awesome, but no-one wants to get to know the man under the mane… judge me not by the size of my hair, but by the content of my character. We are more than just head-massage connoisseur’s and mythological hair beasts.
So if you see a mangy man walking about the streets of your life, don’t just awe over his splendid locks. Ask him a question and get to know him. Find out that there is more to him than his gorgeous mop. Please note that I am not responsible for any initial misjudgements of character resulting in legally questionable activities.