Vanity: The Most Beautiful of the Deadly Sins

As an ugly ugly, fat fat fat man, there are few aspects of my appearance in which I can take a modicum of pride. Sure, my calves are sicktight, but I think it's retarded that one could look upon such a body part with any degree of pride, (plus, it's cold outside and I can't show them off). Though I do get enjoyment when I hear of other morons' vain attempts to improve their physique in this area ("if I only get calf implants, I'll totally be neck-deep in pussy!"). No, the only thing that I can be proud of is my stupid hair.

Actually, I mainly find my hair to be annoying. It really only works in one style, and there's a whole metric fuckton of it. It's not like I have a giant afro--no, it's just that there's more hair packed per-square-inch than you can imagine. The greatest part about this is that I have the same conversation with every barber:

Barber Fellow: That's a lot of hair!
Me: Sure is, hehehe (thinks of way to knife someone nearby)

But in general, I'm happy with whatever haircut I get. It's pretty hard to fuck up "just trim it". The only problem is the maintenance, because without proper care, drastic shit happens.

I end up looking like a dyke.


I have multiple factors working against me, which lead to that unfortunate possibility. One is my approximately C-cup breasts, which while potentially fantastic on a woman, are just wrong on my body. Two, my Eastern European heritage works against me, because of the stereotype in American culture that E. European women are more manly-looking than their male counterparts. All of this adds to the general confusion that could result.

Sure, I could easily rectify this problem with some careful adjustments on my part. But due to my strict pro-lazy, anti-metro policy, I do as little as possible when it comes to hair care. No blow-dry, because frying my head does not sound appealing. No mousse, because that shit is icky and gets all over your hands, with none of the fun of 'batin. And no gel, because my douche quotient is not high enough. If you use hairgel, you're a douche. And if you dare offer yourself as a counterexample, I'm sorry--next time you check the mirror you'll have a douche staring right back at you. No, all I do is run a brush through the hair a couple of times, and half-expect it to stay relatively in place for the next 20 hours.

When it all comes together, you have the one man that can rock the near-pompadour this side of Daniel Kessler from Interpol. Sure, it sounds bongtarded in theory, but it's the only thing that ever comes to working. This then leads to the compliments from the ladies, who once have gotten over their initial disgust, come to marvel at my amazing follicles. And it stays looking good, no matter what the length--from 80s I-Banker style to late 70s porn producer style, the potential is there. But then again, there's the good chance I end up looking like a man-hating lesbian.



And now, if you excuse me, it's Friday night. Time for this dyke to hit the town.