Holy crap am I in a lot of trouble.
Haircuts are a complicated Kala Matter. Please, believe me. It’s always in my face or eyes. It’s always cut INCORRECTLY. And now, as I sneak narcissistic looks at my reflection in a mirror as I type this, I even suspect that it’s lopsided.
A haircut is supposedly the answer to everyone’s problems. For me, a haircut is like coming up with the bright idea of drinking a bottle of vodka the morning after a very bad hangover.
A brief consultation with my friend Flem concerning my hair made me realise that my haircut would have been fashionable had it been the 80′s. I had hair like this in grade school. Sadly, now, it’s too short to do anything about it. I could try to have it layered a bit but I admit that I am afraid to touch it lest it generate more dangerous results.
If there is a hair miracle worker out there, I need your benediction now. And the timing is impeccable, too, and I mean this with every drop of sarcasm in my body. Crap. I just need something that will keep people from thinking that Julien’s gone off and married a mushroom.
