Your #1 Source of Unsolicited Life Advice

Month: February 2023

That Tempting Siren’s Call? It’s No Match For My Willpower!

4 Min Read

What’s that? You can’t resist picking up the phone every time it rings?

Of course I’d be happy to show you how to not do it. Of course…


“B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!”

Okay, so even old-timey cell phones didn’t quite sound like that, but since what you’re hearing is a cell phone ringing back in 2001–and the yungens out there don’t know any better–we’ll pretend like that’s the sound they used to make. You know, “before ringtone scientists invented ringtones,” LOL.

So where was I? “B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!” you say?

No, I know that’s where I was in the story, but I meant literally, “Where was I?”

Well, I’ll tell you where I literally was: as a freshly-dreadlocked Junior at K-State, I was beginning the school year by training for my part-time job as a physics teaching assistant. This was where some of the physics professors corralled the 20 or so of us aspiring physics maestro extraordinaires into a lab, and attempted to impress upon us how to properly impart physics facts unto apathetic undergrads.

In other words, I was busy, in a semi-public setting, getting paid to pay diligent attention to someone else.

So, of course I discreetly silenced my phone–never mind the facts that I had had it only for a mere week, and that I was too cheap to pay $4.99 + taxes and fees per month for Voice Mail–before it could it disrupt the classroom proceedings.

Of course…


“Kamsahamnida!1Translation: ‘Thank you’ in Korean.–Oh, sorry, I meant : ‘감 사 합 니 다!’ “

Many years before I knew I would marry into a Korean family, I found myself trying kimchi at the apartment of a couple of Korean K-State grad students. Later in his college career, my wise buddy Gfeller took on a side job as a resident assistant for the international student housing on campus, so he was friends with many a fella from a wide spectrum of nations. And ’twas he who had brought me as his guest to this intimate multi-cultural feast.

Let me tell you, I took my role as a curious colonizer seriously, learning about and partaking in such Korean customs as not wearing your shoes in the house, picking every last bit of meat off the kalbi bones, and of course, you gotta try the kimchi.

And in the middle of such convivial exchange of customs…

“B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!” trumpeted the beast in the depths of my back pocket.

“Hark! Who is that calling my cellular telephonic device?” I thought to myself in a completely unnecessary Victorian-era accent.

In case it was urgent–another 9/11, perhaps?–I decided it was best to take a peek at the Caller ID. Ah, yes, Caller ID–a feature that I had finally caved in and dropped the outrageous amount of $2.99 + taxes and fees per month to have added to my plan a mere two months earlier.

Turns out it, it was my other wise and faithful–and coincidentally, half-Korean– buddy, ol’ Beechnuts, with whom I hadn’t chatted in a while.

But, of course, though new to Korean culture, I acknowledged and respected their deep-seated norm of never being so rude as to answer one’s phone while in the midst of socializing.

Of course…


“Yeah, so even though I know I was the one responsible for them, I gotta say I, um, kinda prefer your dreadlock-free look…”

A couple of years after that particularly dreadful affair, I found myself hanging out with that particular female friend who had waxed up my locks real good–and yes, I had semi-romantic intentions on my mind.

As I walked her across the cold campus to her dorm, I couldn’t help but thinking that she was hinting at something more. Was she calling me…handsome?

I batted my eyelashes at her coyly.

“Oh, do you really think–“

But before I could finish my thought, a blaring “B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!” interrupted the moment.

Glancing at the Caller ID, I noted that it was my noble and beloved mother calling upon me.

Of course, though I loved my momma very much and enjoyed conversing with her, I silenced my phone and refocused my attention on the woman who would indubitably be my future wife…

Of course


“Well, it looks like you have everything in order to refinance your new property. Any questions for me, your trusted local banker?”

Many, many moons later (and not so many moons ago), I was at the financial institution just down the road, assisting an older unnamed family member with some very important adult stuff, and we had almost wrapped everything up when…

“B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!”

And of course you already know that that phone call was immediately silenced, and most definitely no one in that bank had to hear “Hello, Mother, what are you doing?” belch forth from anyone’s speaker phone and echo embarrassingly throughout the building.

Of course…


The point of the story is that I come from a long lineage of folk who know when not to answer their cell phones. And of course I wouldn’t be telling you these relatively boring-ass stories if they weren’t 100% completely true.

Of course…

And of course I gotta leave you with a quite-apt-but-semi-obscure cultural reference that speaks for us all when we hear that “B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!”:

And, of course you already knew that was Electric Six‘s hit, “(Who The Hell Just) Call My Phone,” and you most certainly didn’t have to go listen to it over on YouTube.

Of course…


Content created on: 23/24/25 February 2023 (Thurs/Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

That Boy Sure Has Got An Odd Relationship…And It’s Toxic, Too!

6 Min Read

What in the world does love got to do with a relationship that is literally toxic?

Well, you’ll just have to read on, my friend, read on…


“John would like to see you in the manager’s office…again.”

Say, do you remember that sh*t-job of counting cans and bags of frozen vegetables with the Crypt-Keeper that I talked about last time? You know, the one where I got into trouble because I dared to don a racially-dubious hairstyle? Yeah, that’s the one.

In that tale, I had basically pulled a “You can’t fire me ‘cuz I quit!” and actually made good on that promise two days later. Why would I do such I thing? Well, somebody had to stand up for Black people (and other People of Color) round the world who suffer persecution discrimination when they embrace the hairstyles of their culture. Can you believe that my boss, John, actually had the gall to tell me that I had to take out my dreadlocks or else? Or else what? Or else, he said, I couldn’t keeping doing inventory for whatever random grocery store had hired his crap-tastic company.

*Ahem*…Now that I have reminded you of all those facts, surely you must be wondering, “Wait! I thought our hero had quit…how is John asking to see him in his temporary office again? I thought his days of meddling with that fool were now days of yore?”

Well, as it turns out, I actually quit the first time because it was time to start another semester of college. But college semesters don’t last forever, and Christmas break had rolled around, so I decided to make a little extra fun-money and work for ol’ QIS again for 2 or 3 weeks.

And importantly, you know what happened during that fateful Fall semester of 2001? Uh…I mean besides 9/11? What happened was that my itch to have dreadlocks had been thoroughly scratched (both figuratively and literally–those things dang itchy!), and I had bittersweetly decided to bid my albino tarantula farewell.

And that is where find ourselves in the story…


“Hey El Jefe! Long time, no see! Now what’s all this hub-bub about? Word in the aisle has it that you wanted to see me?”

John somberly shut the door behind me before speaking.

“The HAIR?!? Are you kidding me? Did you learn nothing from last time?”

I was somewhat taken aback. This little pow-wow was about hair? My hair?!?

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on John! What are you talking about? I thought you would be pleased as a properly counted jar of pickles to see that I had cut my dreadlocks off. What gives?”

“Son, have you looked in the mirror lately? I can’t have you working public looking like that.”

Man, this follicly-challenged guy was going to bust my chops no matter what I did with my hair, wasn’t he?

…but to his point, I guess technically I hadn’t considered what John might think if I were to show up to work with…um…well…fuchsia? Red, maybe? No, no, I know: ‘orange’–show up with orange hair.

Okay, it was actually a bit complicated. You see, when I cut my beloved dreads off, I couldn’t just go back to being another boring ol’ vanilla-looking white guy. So what did I do? I popped on down to my local drugstore and bought a box of what was advertised as red hair dye.

Let’s just say that I got more than I had bargained for. Depending on the light, the time of day, and whether or not I had gel in my hair, one could have veritably described my hair color as red, fuchsia, pink, lavender, purple, light purple, orange, cherry, and/or cinnamon.

So that’s what John was going on about. Ah-hah! It all makes sense now…he just hates anything ‘cool’. What a ----- nerd.

“I’m going to have to personally drive you back to the hotel and you had better be blonde when it’s time to go to work in the morning.”

Talk about déjà vu. Just like last time, we were doing a multi-day stint far enough away from home that they had put up the whole inventorying crew in hotels–but this time it was Kansas City instead of Wichita.

However, this time John had caught me early enough in the day, and our hotel was far enough away, that he had no other choice but to load me up in his Subaru and drive me 45 minutes across town.

Dear lord, that was the longest and most awkward 45 minutes of my life. It would have been fine if it had been awkward silence, but noooo, yours truly doesn’t know how to handle silence, so I insisted on chatting the whole way.

Have you ever tried to make casual small-talk with a disapproving superior? I don’t recommend it. On top of that weird dynamic, it doesn’t help that…hmmm, how do I put this? Oh, I know: I’m sad to report that Balding John may very well have been The Least Interesting Man In The World…


“Hmm…the woman on this box of dye looks super-blonde…seems promising…”

While, I wasn’t exactly excited to get rid of my rad-looking hair, I was at least optimistic that it would be problem going back to blonde–and therefore returning to my paying job. I snatched up Platinum Blonde #7, and scurried to the CVS checkout counter, eager to get back to the hotel and get this whole thing over with.

*90 minutes later…*

“What a rip! I’ve been duped by false advertising–I mean, just look at me. I look nothing like the lady on the box!”

The random co-worker I was bunking with in the hotel kinda gave me the side-eye from across the room.

“What’s that you’re going on about?”

“I bought blonde hair dye, but this ain’t working worth crap! Now my hair has gone from red to pink.”

“Maybe you accidentally bought a bleaching product instead of a dye?” he suggested.

“Yeah, that must be it. You hold on…Ima run down to the CVS and be right back!”

*40 minutes later…*

“Okay, I think I got the right stuff now. You mind giving me a hand with this?”

“Yes. I mind. I’m trying to watch a football game here.” Did I mention this guy was a bit of an asshole?

“Fine. I’ll do it myself again!”

*55 minutes later…*

“Sh*t, it looks like I’ve been duped again!” I exclaimed after rinsing out the dye, having it let sit in my hair a little bit longer than the suggested time.

“I don’t know dude, I think light pink looks good on you.” The roommates sincerity was quite dubious.

“Aw, shut your pie-hole, you ass-face. You’re not helping any.”

“Well, John’s going to absolutely love your new look. Or, if you’re concerned he won’t, you can always try dying it again!”

Anyways, I could go on with dialogue like this, or I could cut more directly to the point. Turns out that I gotta learn a little life lesson that wintery day: did you know what there is no such thing as blonde hair day? It’s all bleach. Every last ----- product on the market that claims to be blond-ifying: bleach. Bleach. Bleach.

If I recall correctly, I know chemically treated my hair at least 3 times over the course of two days–though I think it might have been closer to 5. Five! Five bleach treatments–that can’t be good!

Let me tell ya, my hair was fried af. And the best part? I still wasn’t blonde. I had to argue with John to let me go back to working, in spite of my pinkish hair.

“Look, John, I’m pretty sure I’m developing scalp cancer with all the ----- bleach I’ve exposed it to. You gotta give me some credit for trying!”

“Hmm…I don’t know…”

Dude, I know it’s technically still ‘pink’, but I don’t even have the benefit of it being punk-rock pink. It’s more like old-lady pink, or unintentionally effeminate pink. I don’t look cool. I look like a complete idiot. Please take pity on my soul!”

I’m pretty sure my pleas went something right along those lines. It must have worked too, because John finally relented and let me go back to work. Hooray.

Sure, I was going to be earning a sweet paycheck at the end of all of this, but at what cost?

Well, I’ll tell you ‘at what cost’: I would end up suffering the relentless ridicule of my peers and colleagues, for with such light pink tips–and eventually naturally blonde roots as well–you can only imagine what I looked like…


The point of the story is: I looked like a damned Valentine’s Bear. You know, the white ones with the lightest of pink tips? Yeah, I looked just like one of those.

Though that reminds me…Happy Semi-Late Valentine’s Day!

Ah, yes, therein lies this week’s true nugget of wisdom my friends: why suffer all those fools rushing in to your fave restaurant on the 14th or the weekend immediately preceding it? Be smart and celebrate V-Day a week later and I guarantee you that you will enjoy it ten times more.

Especially on account of the NFL switching to a 17-game regular season, and thereby pushing the Super Bowl back a week…right on top of Valentine’s time. You can’t help but wonder how many relationship disputes have arisen because of this inherent scheduling conflict. You know what? I’ll bet you the extended football season was a conspiracy put together by the American Association of Divorce Lawyers. Seriously, I would love to see the divorce statistics before and after that change was implemented.

But like I said, you can neatly side-step that whole marital fiasco by waiting a week or less to pop the cork on that pink champagne. (And no, that is not an overtly amorous euphemism…)


Content created on: 15/18 February 2023 (Weds/Sat)

‘The Revenge Of The Balding Boss’? Now That’s Just Dreadful…

8 Min Read

If I’m being oppressed on the job because of my hair, then we agree my boss is being racist, right?

(P.S. We’re both white…)


“Wait, wait, wait–hold up. You think I look ‘unprofessional’?!? Have you ever looked at the guy you hired to supervise us?”

Maybe I wasn’t saying it out loud, but it was definitely what I was practically screaming in my head. John, the owner of the small inventorying company I was working for that summer, had called me into his temporary office at the back of the grocery store we were currently working, and he was more or less temporarily firing me.

“Go out there and look at that walking skeleton Greg, the guy you literally chose to be the most visible face of your company. He looks like the Crypt-Keeper a few days before he died!”

As I continued my internal rant, I couldn’t help but realizing that I was right–Greg’s resemblance to this guy was uncanny:

“Son, although you don’t work for this here fine grocery store, you have to understand that in the eyes of most customers, you do. And I just can’t have you out there on the floor counting cans looking like that.”

At this point, John had me worked up into a combination of livid and embarrassed. I was out there doing my job, when he had yanked me into his little lair, only to berate me for the style of my hair. Add that to the logically airtight case (in my head) positing that his right hand man was waaaay more publicly unpresentable than me.

This is the first of two points I need to expound upon: Greg, our supervisor. I first met him in an Arby’s, where Quality Inventory Services, Inc, decided to hold their interviews. I kid you not. Arby’s. Give me a break, though–I had moved back to Manhattan (KS) in the middle of the summer for reasons that are of no import right now, and I was desperate for some income. And do you know how hard it is to find somebody that is hiring in the middle of the summer in a college town? Well, besides Wendy’s–but they wanted somebody who would work during the school year too, and this was before I learned how to lie and tell them ‘Sure! I want to work here until I die!”

Anyways, myself and several other people from various walks of life (but all equally hard up for some cash), had gathered at this fine establishment to try to impress this semi-homeless looking guy with how fast we could punch numbers into a calculator. Okay, so the bar was pretty low for this company, but still…you would at least expect the guy to cut his fingernails, right?

Oh, and the one thing that he said that I remember all these years later was “Most people use filing cabinets and what not to keep track of their stuff. Me? I find that stuffing everything in my back pockets works best for me!”

And this is no exaggeration, either. This yellow-toothed dude was about 4 inches higher off his seat than he should have been as he sat across that Arby’s booth from me, all on account of the myriad–nay, plethora–of folded up pieces of paper that called his back pockets ‘home’.

Hey…did I mention that he had the exact same hair as the Crypt-Keeper? Oh, I did already? You saw the picture above, you say? Alright. Now you have a pretty complete picture of the man, the myth, the legend: Greg.

Now on to point #2: the gross imbalance of power. At the time of this conversation with John, it was the weekend before the fall semester of my junior year at K-State started up. We were in the middle of a 3-day job down in Wichita, and it was going to be my last one before calling it quits to focus on school and doing other, much funner, college stuff.

Normally, a day working for an inventory company would consist of waking up at 4:30 in the morning to go meet up in the Food4Less parking lot, and then all of us esteemed employees would pile into a company van and head out to wherever a severely under-inventoried Northeast Kansas grocery store might be located. After starting actual working around 6:30 or 7, we would work until 2 or 3 pm before piling up in the van again and commuting back to home base.

But, in this case, since we had 3 stores in Wichita to do, QIS instead put us up in hotels for a few nights, as opposed to making 3 arduous commutes back-to-back-to-back.

So, how do all these seemingly unnecessary details lead to a ‘gross imbalance of power’? Surely that’s what you’re wondering. Well, what that means is that I was basically an indentured servant to QIS.

No matter how badly I wanted to tell John to take his right-hand man’s greasy pinky fingernail and shove it where the sun don’t shine, I really couldn’t. Otherwise, I would find myself homeless and carless in Wichita, a good 44 hour walk1Google Maps will back me up on this fact. back to my dorm!

So there I was, unable to protest or even stick up for myself, feeling like a kid who got called to the principal’s office for wearing too-baggy pants to school. I couldn’t say a dang word when John gave me the ultimatum:

“Here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to take you back to the hotel, and you use the rest of the afternoon to undo what you’ve done to your hair, mmmkay? Then, if you look presentable in the morning, I’ll let you go ahead and work the other two days we’re here. Got that? Good.”

Oh, my dear Johnny-boy, you ----- racist simpleton. One does not simply “undo what I’ve done to my hair…”


“Umm…what time did you say you had to be at work? 5:15? Well we better get to working on your hair…*yawwwwwwn*”

Flashback to approximately 8 hours earlier, where we find our hero attempting to build a loft for his dorm room in the middle of the night. As bad of an idea as that sounds–at least when our hero has to be in a sh*tty company van in the Food4Less parking lot at 5:15 am–it’s made even worse when you consider the fact that yon hero had asked a fair maiden–we’ll call her ‘Em’–to do him a favor and style his hair before they all got swept up in the hub-bub of the new school year.

Okay, I suppose I’ll stop referring to myself, your noble and beloved protagonist, as ‘our hero’, mainly because it just gets so tedious telling (and hearing) a story in 4th-person.

As I was saying, Em was one of those female friends that were barely across the ‘acquaintance’ line, one you would feel comfortable with asking favors from that might keep her up all night. And not in a sexy, fun way.

In retrospect, it was probably bad enough that I had asked her to fix up my hair around midnight that night. Well, it wasn’t horrible of me to ask that–we were young college bucks and does, after all–but nonetheless, I could have been a bit more considerate of her time and sleep schedule.

Where it really went off the rails into ‘am I a horrible human being?’ territory was the fact that I said, ‘Hey, could you help me build this loft real quick before you get to my hair?’ Sometimes I seriously don’t know what is wrong with me.

Anyways, as you can imagine (and My Beautiful Bride can heartily attest to), is that my ability to estimate how long a given task might take to complete was wildly and widely inaccurate that night. If I recall correctly, we didn’t even get the loft fully built, abandoning it around 3:30 in attempt to tackle the task that sat atop my head.

“You did bring all the supplies I’ll need, right? *yawwwwwn*” Em wearily asked, with a slight quiver of hope in her voice that maybe, just maybe, I forgot and she could get out of this ill-advised favor.

“You bet I did! Look–I got a complete kit right here!” I had been waiting for this moment since the day I had Spanky Spankowich destroy what remained of his techni-color creation, allowing him to buzz my hair short enough to get rid of my multi-color tips and start growing my hair out with a clean slate.

That had been 9 months earlier. Now, like a child growing in its mother’s womb, my follicles had gestated long enough. Their moment of rebirth was at hand.

“Fine then…hand me the wax and let’s get this over with. *yawwwwwwnnnnnn*…”

Resigned to her fate in the moment, Em dutifully set to work, transforming my beautiful blonde bowl-cut into the head-turning locks I had dreamed about my whole adult life. Ninety minutes later, with just enough time to for a speed-limit-ignoring trip to the Food4Less, her masterpiece was finally complete.

“Ughhh…just let me go wash off my hands real quick and I’ll be right back,” she said as she scurried off to the restroom, leaving me there to admire myself in the mirror, thinking:

Em came back shortly, still trying to wipe the grease off her hands.

“So are you happy? Is this what you really wanted?”

“Yeah, man, this is pretty sweet. Thanks so much!”

“*yaawwwwwwwnnn* So am I free to go now?”

“Sure…go get yourself 2 hours of sleep, kid–you earned it.”

“Umm…whatever. Oh, before I go, you know I’m a true friend, right?” she said.

“You bet–especially after this!” I was so clueless as to where she was going with this, it was almost cute.

“Then, as a true friend, this might as well come from me before any one else says something.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“Well, if I’m being honest…you should know that you look like you have an albino tarantula living on top of your head…”


The point of the story, kids, is that so-called ‘white dreadlocks’ will always and forever be a bad idea. Just don’t do it! No matter how fun you think it will be to culturally appropriate a laid-back, low-maintenance ‘lifestyle’, it will always always always be a ----- stupid idea in the end.

But, if you go against all the best learn-from-my-mistakes-kid life advice this blog (and just about anybody else you talk to) has to offer, I will wholly support you when some jack-ass boss of yours thinks your albino tarantula is somehow more offensive to grocery shoppers than the soon-to-be-deceased Crypt-Keeper, and that ----- fool tries to tell you to ‘go back to your hotel room and undo your filthy dreadlocks.’ You know what you do then? You sure as sh*t don’t cut off your locks–no! You’ve sacrificed so much already to get here! And of course you can’t ‘undo’ them. Does this clown even understand how dreads work? Probably not. In fact, he’s probably just jealous because he suffers from male-pattern baldness.

What you do is you tell John to suck it up for 2 more days, then you will literally be out of his hair (or at least where his hair used to be–hah!). Then you go back to your hotel room and convince your co-worker/roommate to walk to the nearby theatre an see the hit Rowan Atkinson (aka Mr. Bean) hit movie, Rat Race with you. Seriously, as dumb of a movie as it was, the two of us have never laughed harder in our lives.

And speaking of laughing way too hard at something incredibly stupid, I leave you with this comedian’s commentary on white dreadlocks that, by pure happenstance, came across my YouTube feed a few nights ago (warning: adult language)…


Content created on: 10/11 February 2023 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Watch How Colorful Plumage Attracts The Female Of The Species…

7 Min Read

Yeah, sure, David Attenborough nature documentaries can be fascinating and informative.

But as a source of relationship advice? Not so much…


“Oh, you got a full-ride scholarship? Wow, you’re not only handsome and funny, but smart too–that’s a lady-killer combination you got going on there. Tee-hee!”

As my new-found hair stylist busied herself dying my hair half electric-blue and half neon-pink, we had started chatting to pass the time as one does. And it wasn’t long before she landed such a devastating blow to my ego, catching me completely off guard.

Wait, let me clarify: I don’t mean ‘blow’ as in the ‘it hurt so bad and now I have zero self-esteem and want to shuffle off this mortal coil’ type of blow. No, I mean ‘blow’ as in the ‘one hit of that white powdery goodness and now I’m high as a kite’ kind.

Cocaine. Blow is slang for cocaine, if I have to spell it out for you. It’s a frickin’ controlled substance joke.

Anyways…What I mean to say is, even though she was a much older woman at 31 years of age–it’s hilarious what a college freshman considers ‘old’, lol–as I sat there basking in the afterglow of such an ego-stroking comment, I couldn’t help to wonder if I had accidentally engaged in some type of secret college town mating ritual. Was it possible that she, upon seeing my beautiful plumage, couldn’t help but to call out with a series of irresistible vocal chirps and squeaks in an attempt to lure such a lucrative life-mate into her little love nest?

The thought bemused me, particularly because not only was I a poor college student, but a cheap one at that–and the whole reason I was sitting in her chair was because her hair-transmogrifying prices were the cheapest in all of Manhattan.1Manhattan, Kansas–home of Kansas State University So if she was looking for a bread-winner to provide financial security for our future children together, then the joke was on her.

When our time together finally came to a close, and I had to pay my bill, she had me feeling so good about life that I did something very much out of character: I left an embarrassingly large tip–somewhere around 50%! Yup, that’s right: thanks to her little compliment, I ended up blowing all the money I was supposedly saving on her tip.

And it wasn’t until days or weeks later that it occurred to me that was the whole point: she didn’t see me as a potential suitor and/or genetic donor–no! She saw me as a paying customer who–on account of his requested hair colorings–apparently was crying out for validation and/or attention, and he might just pay a little extra were she to lavish either or both of those upon him.

Alas, she was right. But again, if there’s a life lesson that I wish I would have learned long before then, it’s that a little flattery never hurts no one. Heck, if you’re good enough at making people feel good about themselves, they might even pay you handsomely.

Hmm…

The more I describe the situation…well, the more it starts to sound more akin to a trip to the local brothel. You know…a whorehouse, or whatever y’all Boomers used to call it back in your day. Hooker hotel, maybe? Does that ring a bell? Or is that too Cival War Era-y for you? Not that old, eh…

Ah! I got it! ‘Prostitute’–there’s a term I think that everyone will understand. In retrospect, it was kinda like going to a Prostitute Place–dangit! That doesn’t sound right either, does it?–anyways, you get the analogy here, ya? You go somewhere and you pay some rando to make you feel real good. Like, what am I actually paying for here, anyways?

On the other hand…wouldn’t that line of thinking call into question the moral fidelity of any one who frequents a masseuse?

Wait…NO. I’m not taking all y’all’s suffering souls down this philosophical rabbit hole. I came here to talk about how I had really cool hair when I was in college, and somehow here we are talking about crack cocaine and escort services. Needless to say, “I digress…”

So…um, yeah. Fun fact: a mildly interesting side effect of my choice of hair colors was that they looked suspiciously close to the colors of our sworn enemy and intrastate rivals, Kansas University (blue and red), rather than that of the hometown team, Kansas State (my favorite color, purple). Ultimately, I tried to navigate that situation with some snappy-yet-incredibly-stupid comeback like “red and blue make purple, you ass–I’m surprised a cross-eyed inbred idiot like yourself didn’t see that already!”

Yes. Witty. I know.

I really had to bust this out when KU rolled into town to play us in football. It got pretty old pretty quick, being mistaken by my own comrades in the student section for a heinous traitor. Can you believe it? They thought that I identified with the goofiest-ass of all the birds in the imaginary animal kingdom: the JayHawk. Oh, the indignity…


“Man, I appreciate where your heart is, taking a seasonal approach to your choice of hair color, but…”

A few months later, it was time to move on with my life and say goodbye to my now-fading red and blue ‘do. And one of the first people to see my new look was my good friend, Gfeller, who, like any true friend should do, was excellent at shooting straight with me. So…kinda the complete opposite of ol’ Compliments-For-Cash Candi, or whatever my hairstylist’s name was. Yup, he was definitely never one to feed my ego.

And as his voice trailed off, I knew exactly where he was going with his silence: I had made a gross error in judgment.

“…but maybe celebrating Thanksgiving by going half-brown, half-orange wasn’t the best idea?” I finished his sentence.

“Yeah, let’s just say you’re not going to be picking up any chicks anytime before Christmas.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Gfeller paused a moment before speaking some hard truth into my life.

“Dude, you look like a ----- turkey…”


“Welp, at least it’s better than last year’s orange-and-brown fiasco…”

Gfeller. Again. This time around he was seeing me for the first time since the beginning of our sophomore year. After a relatively vanilla (i.e. naturally blonde) spring and summer, my first order of business upon returning to campus was to revert to my old ways and chemically assaulting my follicles.

“Yeah, I’ve never really tried going with complimentary colors before, so…y’know…ta-da?” It seemed like any time I was in Gfeller’s presence, I would eventually end up questioning my life choices.

“Mmm-hmmm. I see. You know, if you really wanted to go that route, you probably would have been better off waiting until Christmas.”

“Pfft! Red and green is too bougie for me! Why would I want to be just another lemming running off a cliff with the rest of the crowd?”

Gfeller lost himself for a moment amidst yet another bout of wise and sage-like reflection.

“Nonetheless, orange and blue is a pretty, erm, ‘bold’ move, even for a bold guy like you. I can’t help wonder if there’s more to your color selection…”

“What exactly are you getting at, my dude?” I felt slightly attacked.

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain female in our friend-group that you’ve been writing letters to all summer, would it?”

“Hey man, the fact that orange and blue happen to be her alma mater’s school colors is a complete and utter coincidence! Not that I would know what the colors of the Olathe East–I mean, ‘whatever high school she happened to attend’–would be. C’mon, what kind of guy do you think I am?”

“If you say so…” G-man clearly wasn’t convinced by my protestations.

It wasn’t but a day or two later when Gfeller and I ran into this particular female–whom shall remain un-nicknamed–and I swear the first words out of her mouth were: “Hey, orange and blue! Just like my high school! Go Ha–“

“Go Hawks!” I replied just a few microseconds before I should have.

Gfeller gave me a long sideways glance laced with a smirk.

“My, aren’t you rather knowledgeable when it comes Kansas high school mascots?” he said in a not very brothers-before-those-who-might-become-mothers2In college I ran with the Christian crowd. This was our adaptation of the incredibly misogynistic phrase “bros-before-hoes”. In retrospect, we weren’t doing any better of a job on the not-being-a-sexist-shitheads front than the heathens. tone.

“Or…um…whatever random animal your mascot might be…’Hawks’ you say? I guess I’m just good at guessing…so yeah, ‘Go Hawks!’…or whatever…does it feel hot in here to you two? He he….um…so, yeah…”


“Uh…you sure you want an Ichthus on your head? Umm, whatever you want, dude. It’s your hair, your dye…your funeral…”

It wasn’t but a month or so before it became clear that orange/blue wasn’t moving me any closer to marriage with…um…nobody in particular–I was just getting bored with that ugly color combination, okay? So, just like in the world of tattoos, the best way to fix a semi-permanant mistake is to cover it up with an even bigger, more permanent, mistake.

And for this task, I had eschewed the insincere services of ‘Candi’ and instead enlisted my #1 frenemy, ol’ Spanky Spankowich–who, curiously enough, was later revealed to have been interested in the same nobody-in-particular at the same time as me. I didn’t know about his pursuits, but he sure knew about mine because we took a road trip to KC at one point, and guess what happens if you get stuck alone with me for more than 3 hours? I don’t stop talking until you know every last detail about what is currently consuming my thoughts at that particular point in time.

Now that I think about…perhaps the fact that we were unspoken romantic rivals explains why he was more than happy to let me self-sabotage myself into oblivion…

Oh, Spank, you rascal! I entrusted you with my hair, and you return the favor by obliging my request for a green Jesus-fish running from front-to-back of my scalp…

…filled in with purple in the middle…

…with red on the outside on the left…

…and with blue on the outside on the right…

…and so thoughtful!–You even remembered the eyebrows…

…blue on the left, red on the right!

Jesus-fishin’ cries for help,3If you didn’t follow that stretch of humor logic, it was an attempt to be a play on “Jesus effin’ Christ”, with a dash of attention-whore self-judgment thrown in for a nice little circular reference. dude, true friends don’t let friends self-destruct like that! What were you thinking, letting me lean into my own poor af fashion judgment like that? Spank, you dirty bastard, you!

Yeesh.

One look at me, and you would have to ask yourself: “Is this guy trying to attract college girls or pea hens, amiright? You know…cuz he looks like a mother- ----- peacock…”


The point of the story is that if you want to randomly #HumbleBrag to whoever will listen about all the edgy sh*t you did with your hair when you were but a youth, may I suggest weaving them together with a common theme like, say, ‘birds’? Never mind the emergent theme of how your hairstyle choices played pretty directly into your repeated failed mating rituals. Don’t pay that no mind at all, My Little Pretty…

Oh! But speaking of ‘weaves’–we haven’t even got to the dreadlocks yet. That’s a whole ‘nother tale or two of poor-yet-humorous life decisions that’ll have to wait until next time…


Content created on: 3 February 2023 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

error

Enjoy this blog? Please spread the word :)

RSS
Follow by Email
YouTube
YouTube
Instagram