|Wish as I might, I'll never look like Stanley Tucci|
And why? So the humidity, wind, activities, and nature of the day can destroy it. This sounds like late-80s stand-up but if you've ever been late to a function or waited and waited for the preparation of the perfect hair you'll know that it can feel like 21.MM hours each day, each person.
You know who gets their 21.2MM hours per day back? Bald men. And bald women. And bald babies. They give zero f*cks and enjoy those eight minutes doing more important things - like trying to figure out why the four slots on their toaster all toast at completely inconsistent levels. Or maybe that is just our home and my use of the time.
You see, dear reader (and I hope you're sitting down) I am a balding, American man. Don't worry. I've got an asymmetrical face and fat body to keep me sexy for years and decades to come. More importantly - I don't care about my general appearance.
No, no. This is not one of those "I'm too important to care" or a "I've got a wonderful person who loves me so my appearance matters not" or a "Protest as much as you can and hope Shakespeare doesn't point out how odd that is" things . . . it is truly something I'm comfortable with and okay with.
It started when I was 19 (twenty years ago) and it has been slow and gracious and I had a TON of hair to start so - for much of my regression no one has really noticed (and many have even argued) but I got ahead of it and have owned it.
I started "buzzing" my hair over a decade ago. First with a "six" guard (6/8") and then a five, etc. all the way down to my current conundrum . . . to move from the two (1/4") to the one (1/8"). That is the final hoorah for me. That last real optional step down. From there it is the 1/16" guard (basically to stop you from gnawing the crap out of your own scalp) and then, deep gulp, it is safety razors and lavender lather for the rest of my beautiful life with a wonderful person who loves me and doesn't care about my appearance.
But, hey, I'll have eight minutes to obsess over my toaster, sleep, or gripe about the world around us while you're working that thick, luxurious mane you're burdened with. Suckers.