The Goo

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If it takes more than two globs of goo to mold my hair into place, that means it’s past time for a cut. “Normally,” I shouldn’t need more than one glob. And you may ask: Dude, why did you put the word “normally” in quotes? And I may answer: You haven’t seen my hair. You haven’t seen my body. I’m a beer-gut with moobs and toothpick-thin arms and legs. The head is an afterthought. My LIFE is an afterthought. But this isn’t about my body. Or my life. This isn’t about my hair. Scratch that. This IS about my hair. Continuing: I also know it’s time for a cut when the bathroom mirror shows me spiraling wild sideburns. I don’t allow them to creep DOWN my face, those sideburns, but they do grow OUT without much rhyme or reason. Anyway, anyway: The barbers, they never smear the goo on the way I like it smeared on. I always, always, want my hair gooed BACK (pretty please), but they all always, always goo it down flat or straight forward. It’s a conspiracy! Well, maybe not. But conspiracies give life meaning. So, now, I just tell them to forget the hair goo. But maybe I should quit patronizing CheapClips. They never give me the same barber twice. It’s a conspiracy! Well, maybe not. But conspiracies give life meaning. What if my hair is universally loathed by barbers everywhere? THEN it would be a conspiracy, wouldn’t it? Not that I blame them. My hair sucks. Looking forward to going bald. 
26 May 2000

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