A reoccurring theme at the dinner table: playfully make fun of Dad’s disheveled hair.

Ah, the trend was repeating itself again.  Giggle, giggle, “Dad has bad hair.” Then I recalled something my son had once said.  When I sweat and push my hair back on the sides, my son observed that my hair looks sort of like Dr. Strange.  Yep, sometimes I have superhero hair.

Relaying this story as a defense, my wife replied, “Oh dear, you’re no Benedict Cumberbatch.”

A bit confused, I sought clarification.  “I didn’t think that you found Benedict Cumberbatch that attractive.”

Her response was all that was needed to finish the War of Words, “Yes, but he’s Hollywood.”

Sorry, bub.  No matter the style.  No matter the gel.  No matter the quality of barber.  You ain’t Hollywood.  You can roll that down the red carpet.