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Dude, Your Head Looks Like an Ass Crack!

I met a guy yesterday with the most unfortunate hair.

Now, I’m not one who can really talk about bad haircuts. For one thing, I have no idea what’s ‘en vogue‘ these days. Or any days, for that matter. I wouldn’t know a mullet from a mallard, a bouffant from a buffet, or a toupee from a tepee.

(Or, if you prefer, a wig from a wigwam. Or a pageboy from a Pueblo village. Really, pick any hairstyle-to-Native-American-dwelling comparison you like. I’m just here to provide the choices. Take your time.)

So, anyway, I’m clueless when it comes to ‘dos’. I’ve got no ‘do clue’. I’m a ‘do loser’, a ‘do dumbass’, maybe even a ‘do-tard’.

(Um, maybe. ‘Do-tard’ is so wrong, in like eight different ways at once. And that’s one, maybe two, more than I usually prefer to be simultaneously bad. I prefer to spread my snarkiness throughout the day, rather than concentrating it all at once like that.)

Anyway, let’s just say that I’m never gonna replace the hair guy on Queer Eye.

(Or, for that matter, the food guy, or the interior design guy. I think I could probably take over for that snarky blonde fellow — all he really does is make bitchy little comments and snipe at people. Yeah, I could do that.

Well, except for that whole ‘getting busy with guys’ thing. I’d have a bit of homework to do there, and I think I’d have to be really drunk to get started. And blind, and quite possibly unconscious, as well. But look, we’re pretty far off topic here. Let’s get back to bad hair, all right?)

So, my own ineptitude in the area of hair care is usually pretty obvious. I wait way too long to get haircuts. I I don’t use ‘product’. I don’t even know what ‘product’ is, and frankly, given some of the things I’m guessing that it might be, I’m not even gonna write ‘product’ without using those quotes around it. I’m not touching that stuff directly. That’s nasty.

All of which is to say: I’m no expert when it come to coiffures. But this guy yesterday had a problem that even a ‘do dummy’ (heh, forgot about that one) like me could identify. It all had to do with his part. Because it wasn’t so much a ‘part’ as a ‘radical separation’. A hairy segregation, a veritable follicular bifurcation. And whatever the hell it was (‘bifurcation’? Where the hell did that come from?), it was ugly. Seriously ugly — I’m talkin’ Abe Lincoln’s mole, Michael Jackson in a leather tutu, scare the women and children uuuuuuugly.

Now, I don’t know how the hell he managed it — or more importantly, why the hell he managed it — but this dude had a half an inch or more of scalp showing between his hair-halves. And scalp, my friends and compadres, is not pretty. Not with hair around it, anyway. Fully bald? Fine. Shaved? I’m cool with that. But just peeking through, with all those little hair ends and oil and stuff showing? Bleh! No. And if the gleaming and glistening and shinyness was any indication, the guy’s hair was full of ‘product’, too. I mean, lousy with the stuff. So all that goop and grease was glommed onto that strip of scalp, too.

(I’m hoping it was ‘product’ of some kind, anyway. Otherwise, I don’t wanna know what the guy had in his hair. Frog’s have been laying eggs on him, or birds have been scalp-crapping him. I don’t know, and I don’t wanna know. Let’s just call it ‘product’ and move on.)

So of course, despite my best efforts (and let’s be honest… my ‘best efforts’ really aren’t all that damned good), I found myself staring at the top of this guy’s head, mesmerized by the hair-gap on his head. I wondered how he managed to get his hair that way — simple combing and brushing wouldn’t accomplish this ‘Red Sea parting’ kind of look. Maybe he has two teams of horses, and hooks them up in the morning to puuuuull his hair apart. Or maybe he’s got a wind tunnel set up on the ceiling of his bathroom, and all the hair in the middle of his head gets industrially blown one way or the other. Or he’s found a way to sprinkle little itty bitty magnets pointing one way into one side of his hair (hey, the ‘product’ would make them stick, right?), and magnets pointing the other way on the other side, so they repel each other all day.

(And maybe if someone musses his hair, they get all out of sync and makes a mohawk in the middle; who knows?)

I never did figure it out. I don’t know how his hair got into that unholy condition; I just know that it shouldn’t be there. And if I know that… well, let’s just say that Helen Keller would catch on to a fashion faux pas before I would. This guy needs help, now.

Not from me, of course, unless this guy’s looking for the ‘Fozzy Bear‘ look. But help from somewhere. Maybe those Queer Eye guys will swoop down on him and make him fabulous, at least for a day. That would be great — clean him up, fix his house, teach him how to make a really good pan-seared tuna. All of this is well and good. But please, please, very first thing — teach the dude how to part his damned hair. It’s not a contest to see how far apart you can get the sides. Please, get this guy a ‘do clue’, before he shows his scalp slit in public again. Eek!