The Fuck is on Your Face? Vol. VII: Hair! The Musical

Today’s post comes to us from my hilarious friend Mike.

I want to talk about hair, if I may. Here’s the executive summary, for you busy types: Your hair looks great! You don’t need to stress out about it so much! Also, don’t sear your boyfriends.

I know a girl who dyed her hair professionally, several times in succession, each time with an imperceptibly different shade. “It’s too dark, now it’s too light, now I’m just complaining to be difficult”, etc. I totally understand the desire to have awesome hair, but chances are you have it already. Maybe spend that time and energy solving crimes with your dog or something.

Similarly, what’s with all the straightening and curling? Your hair is perfect how it is! Is it a grass is always greener situation? More importantly, let’s not overlook the psychologically (and possibly physically) scarring aspect of the apparati required. I know, I know, this fine blog advises care and not-dumbness to avoid accidents, but what about those of us who aren’t manning the helm? I don’t put razor blades in your salad or piranhas in your bubble bath, so please think of all the burgeoning hand modeling careers out there before leaving these sinister instruments lying around.

P.S. Can someone explain hair extensions to me? How are these socially acceptable but toupees are frowned upon? Why not just grow more hair? It’s not hard – lounging around and eating cheetos will get the job done.

This is a man who knows a little something about hair, ladies.

Mike was gracious enough to take time away from his hand-modeling career for this post. We are immensely grateful that he used those beautiful specimens to type something out for us. 

The author of this blog confesses to constant hair appraisal. Ever since an impulsive decision made in the sweltering wasteland of Brooklyn two summers ago to chop it all off, my hair has been creeping its way back to its former glory in a painfully slow manner. I’ll admit to a brief flirtation with extensions, but that got weird real fast when they started falling out of my head in the most inconvenient of places (“Oh, that? That’s just my spare moustache. No, I’m not diseased.”). I am not gentle enough to care for such temperamental things on my head. This is why we can’t have nice things.

Then there was the Blonde Phase (unfortunately immortalized in the otherwise awesome headshot for this blog), and, well, now it’s just never the right color. Like Mike’s friend fretted, “Now it’s too dark, now it’s too light.” Imperceptible to the casual observer, I’m told. At any given moment, there are two or three things I’d like to do to my hair. Right now? It’s a body wave and a demi-gloss. Never satisfied.

What about you? Is somebody else’s hair always greener?

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The Fuck is On Your Face? Vol. IV: The Insidious Bobby Pin

Today’s post comes from Kai, a grade school friend of mine who consistently cracks everyone up on Facebook. That’s about the only qualification I need to pester someone into writing something for me.

Ladies, I would like to take this opportunity to address the issue of bobby pins because it’s something of an epidemic. You leave those damned things absolutely everywhere. On my dresser. In the sink. Under the couch. In my refrigerator. They’re litter, like cigarette butts or used needles. Oh look — the cat just choked to death on one. Fantastic.

Here’s a list of things that I hate finding in my apartment:
1. Fire 2. Bobby Pins 3. Meth Addicts 4. Dead Cats

I imagine you must distribute them about the room like Johnny Fucking Appleseed when I’m not looking, because they always end up in new and surprising places. It’s ridiculous. Something rattling around in my laptop? Bobby pin. Pointy thing in my shoe? Bobby pin. Weird thing in my teeth after hooking up with you? Motherfucking bobby pin!

Kai, I’m going to let you in on a little secret: it’s not an epidemic, it’s a conspiracy. That’s all I’m at liberty to say.

Speaking of conspiracies, bobby pin users, did you know that the correct way to wear bobby pins is with the wavy side down and the flat side up? The wavy part is designed to grip your hair. Betcha didn’t know that, did you. Betcha didn’t think you came to this entry to get your mind blown, did you. BAM: schooled.

I spent entirely too long trying to figure out if those were eyebrows. Still confused.

Campbell out.

The face of a man who has clearly just sat on a bobby pin.