Why You Should Pay for My Haircut

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I’m sorry if you’re offended by the grotesque haircut that precedes this blog post. You can either stare it in or disgust, or be a willing participant in my latest epiphany: Forcing people to pay for my next haircut.

My hair, like other parts of my body that will remain unnamed, has a mind of its own. This band of renegade follicles does whatever it damn well pleases, whenever it damn well pleases.

Not that I do much to tame the ‘do. I eschew hair products. I haven’t combed the beast since I was in my thirties. And I judge the quality of a haircut by how much it costs and if I can walk into the barber shop and get one right away.

Add to this the aging process — in which areas designated for hair growth go bald (the head), and other unsightly zones flourish (ye olde cavern of nostril hair) — and you’ve got a spectacular mess.

What’s a guy to do? With a mortgage, kids heading to college, car payments, a skyrocketing Belgian beer budget, I long ago had to line-item veto the haircare portion of my budget.

I’ll tell you what to do. Or more accurately, I’ll tell you what to do for me.

You can pay for me to get a new haircut.

Think about it this way. We shell out millions of dollars for Superfund cleanup, or eradicating urban blight, or painting a public mural. As a society, we are repulsed by the unsightly, and we’ll do everything in our power to make the world as beautiful as our airbrushed celebrities.

So why not do the same for my horrifying haircut? If the picture at the top of this post frightens you, then don’t stand passively by and let yourself be offended. You have the power to alter the course of what you see.

I thus threw myself on the mercy of the public. I decided to put myself in your capable hands. It was time for the world to clean-up my act.

Neighborhood Curtails my Coif

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I have to confess, I’ve never really cared all that much about my haircut, considering I don’t even see the damn thing all day. But I knew others did.

I started the campaign small, going door-to-door in my neighborhood with a clipboard and my head o’ mottled hair.

When an unsuspecting homeowner would open their door and shriek in horror at my haircut, I would roll out my spiel. “Hi, I’m collecting money to have the local barber rid this neighborhood of my horrible haircut. Care to contribute?”

Once word got out that I had empowered people to de-blight my blonde mess, my phone started to ring off the hook. Interesting comments included:

“Can they take off the head with the hair?”

“Thank you for doing this. My property value just went up $10 K.”

“The horror. The horror.”

I liked the haircut cleanup campaign, but why stop there? I next empowered people to buy me a wardrobe. The money poured in.

Next, people suggested I see a therapist, to help with my general demeanor, and to convince me to stop writing these posts. A partial success was achieved.

One person called in to suggest that I leave my wife and children, as I was a real pain-in-the-ass to the whole family. (My mother-in-law apparently does not comprehend caller ID.)

I’m happy to report that the overall Me Makeover, funded strictly by public dollars, has been a huge success.

I’m next going to lobby for better living conditions. I think the taxpayers should finance a new apartment for me, a $2 billion mega-man cave that includes a sweet ass football field right in the middle of Green Bay.

Open your pocketbooks, public. It’s time to make my world a better place.

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