I had done it.  I made it to the end.  I had survived getting a new haircut.  Based on the amount they had chopped off, I could now start my life anew in the Witness Protection Program.  Just one last hurdle.  One last vexing question.  Gel or no gel?  That is the question.

Feeling extra confident.  Feeling a bit sassy.  I said “Yes,” as bold as a man getting a hair product could say.  Squirt, went a sizable blob onto the stylist’s hands (Yes, she was a stylist.  This was urgent.  No time to schedule a barber.  Back off, enough already).  Slather, slather, it was applied to my stubby locks.  Pointy, pointy, my hair was sculpted.  There, it looked nice.  Glancing down the brand of hair gel was named “Sexy” something or other.  Maybe my hair was not “sexy,” but it certainly was much improved.

The day proceeded as expected with most co-workers wondering who was the new guy in the office and my own kids not recognizing me.  That’s when I went to put my hand through my hair and was met with something unexpected, a solid mass.  Apparently the “sexy” brand hair gel had been replaced with rubber cement, because Ladies and Gentlemen, I now had mannequin hair.  Hair of Ken of “Barbie and Ken” plastic hair fame.  A helmet head.  Exoskeleton hair.  At least my hard head looked good and that my friend was a marked improvement.  Just make sure to wear gloves before touching the spikes.  You’ve been warned.