Bedhead Counting Sheep No More

Hello, my name is John (my father wanted me to be Jack, but when I was wee, I was steadfast in my desire to be a 'John' - I kind of wished I listened to the man) and welcome to my sick and twisted blog. This paragraph is already garbage because I'm historically awful at introducting myself. Those that know me well enough would agree that I make a horrible first impression. But I grow on you like pubes on a tween. If you were offended by that last statement, I sincerely apologize. I tend to be descriptive and use colorful analogies, you have been warned.

Where do I begin? For the past couple of months, I've been engaging in a social experiment that went extremely awry. I have refrained from getting my haircut. I normally go to Supercuts (the 'Russian Roulette' of haircuts) because if you get 8 haircuts, you get the 9th on the house. If you are male and like to maintain, you may be able to get 2 or 3 of these a year. Me on the other hand gets one every 2 or 3 years. I avoid getting a haircut like it was the plague.

I cannot even remember the last time I got my hair shorn. For about a month, my hair has looked disheveled. I'd go into work with slick combo of hair product (gel, hairspray) in my hair. I was on my way to developing a mullet ala hockey analyst Barry Melrose. This was doing a serious number on my scalp so there were some days where I would fuse my bedhead with a concept where I would toss my hair around like it was a Caesar salad. The latter got mixed reviews as I expected, some thought I was under a great deal of emotional duress in my personal life while others told me that it fit my personality. Perception is the product of the truth and bologna. Needless to say, I achieved a favorable result.

Today, I was out having lunch and drinking Sierra Nevada in the 90 degree heat watching the Red Sox get outslugged by the Tigers. While sweating, I realized I needed to cut it all off. So I went home and let my girfriend enlist me in Marine Corps. She would buzz all my hair off and make me look like Private Pyle in Stanley Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket. So that's the jist of this overblown tale of my reddish locks taking a vacation from my skull. I have the tendency of making the insignificant seem significant and the absurd seem commonplace. It's the nature of my existence.