“I’ll take a four-cut, with a two on the sides,” I tell the anonymous barber at SuperCuts these days, knowing it’s just the best I can do. The 13-dollar price tag and conversation-free language barrier is just what I need, anyways.
Recently, I realized it was time to embrace what is perhaps the first major disappointment of my life as a postgrad: I have bad hair. Coming to terms with this curse is something I never thought would actually happen, but I know that deep down, I’ve experienced so much spiritual growth as a responsible contributor to society as a result. Short, boring hair is my game now, and that’s as exciting it’s gonna get until the day I die.
Having been a deep, dark secret of mine since graduating high school, my denial about my unattractive hair has been long overdrawn with an embarrassing amount of trial-and-error with hair styling products and conditioner, dollars spent on salon-level treatment, and even various types of hair colorings. Yes, I’ve tried over-the-counter L’Oreal hair coloring, along with some bleach I frightfully experimented with, before finally dropping an additional 30 bucks to my hair dresser to do it professionally while rich middle-aged women reading magazines judged the fuck out of me.
“Give me the Jude Law,” I’d say to Nicole, willing to drop well over the $50 cash that I’d allotted from the ATM so nobody could ever see the evidence on my debit card account statement. Nicole would optimistically do the deed, wistfully sculpting my bangs with her scissors. After another 20 minutes of her asking about my new job and how my parents were doing, she’d swivel my body into the mirror, and I’d feel like a million bucks, over-analyzing the shit out of the changes that had been made on top of my scalp.
At the end of the day, no matter how hard I tried, my long, styled hair was more than just bleh, it was garbage. You see, the curls on top of my head have long been referred to as a “Jew-fro” by my Jewish friends (joke’s on them: I was actually raised southern Methodist). With the right lighting, my biased eyeballs thought a legit comb and some strong-hold matte product would turn my
Jew-fro Protestant-fro into a fucking monument. It took me well over a year to realize that in reality, it was actually just a goddamn bird’s nest, drier and more unattractive than fucking Death Valley. Any mate who tried running their hand through that mess of try-hard would risk never seeing it again.
After seeing a picture on my phone that I’d just posed for, it was no longer even subtle how pathetic it looked; I can assure you the look of several coifed twigs hanging over your forehead looks good on nobody — not even my handsome-ass mug. It was time to face the music and surrender to hair serfdom.
And I’m extremely pleased to tell you that it’s not all that bad on the other side. You see, for all the Ryan Goslings and Bradley Coopers of the world who are actually real-life offspring of Greek gods with inhuman locks, there are at least as many studs out there with similarly modest lettuce as myself. These superstars just so happen to rock the fuck out of their less-than-great hair to the point nobody ever recognizes how meh it really is.
Forehead? What forehead? In addition to his uncontrollably dull hairstyle (props to him for matching the high-shine pomade with his immaculate skin, though), A-Rod has a shaky hairline to boot. But he owns the look with that steroid-infused alpha jawline of his. Well done.
His lettuce is undoubtedly coarse and boring, but that sure has hell didn’t stop him from scoring the finest chick in Dillon, Texas, despite her football coach’s father strong opposition on the matter.
ThrowbackThursday. I miss this sweet time with her. pic.twitter.com/8y8k6Au92X
— Matt Saracen (@MattSaracen) October 16, 2014
Nobody in 2015 pop culture balances masculinity and a genuinely lovable personality better than Chris Pratt. He’s my grown man idol, especially with that less-than-special flow.
Having bad hair is no walk in the park. There will be people blessed with flawless locks who try to fool you into feeling less special, but don’t fall for it. Owen Wilson’s hair reminds me of the sun-kissed version of Jesus, but that doesn’t take away from his incurable penis nose and piss poor facial hair. My colleague Roger Dorn has some luscious hair as well, but I know I’ll still smoke him in ping pong later today, and that’s all that matters.
So here’s to you, Mr. Bad Hair Man. Embrace the SuperCuts lifestyle, and rock on.
(PS I may or may not secretly hope I can pull the Benjamin Button hair transformation that Justin Timberlake currently dominates life with. I’d drop a small fortune for that “Suit and Tie” flow.).