Mike Buzzelli

Shedding like a yeti

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I was starting to look like a mad scientist and knew it was time to get my hair cut. My hair grows sideways like Albert Einstein’s. My hair was so bushy, I was waiting for pygmies to hide in it.


I don’t go to a barber. I go to a stylist. Though I have barbershop hair with delusions of grandeur. There’s not much you can do with my ’do. It’s kind of looks like a Brillo pad, wiry, stringy, black and gray.


I should just go to one of those places with Clips or Cuts in their name (Sports, Super, Great). Just take a razor and mow it down, like an overgrown lawn. I don’t have hair to flip. I never wanted to look like Hermey, the elf who wants to be a dentist. I just want a decent cut.


My stylist noticed an abrasion on my ear. I think she was assuming I had someone nibbling on the ear and it got out of hand. She asked, “Fun weekend?” I wish it was the result of a fun weekend.


I told her the truth.


“No. I was trying to shave my own ear hair, and I had an accident.”


Weighing my options, passionate earlobe bite sounds way better than self-grooming incident.


I shave my ears, and I groom my eyebrows. Every once in a while, there’s a lone eyebrow hair that sticks out like a cockroach antenna.


I am concerned about my ear hair. It’s starting to grow in my ear canal. I am worried that my hair is growing inside my head and not on the top of it.


I am an excessively shaggy human. I have been mistaken for a beast of the wild on more than one occasion. On the beach or in the pool, I have been called Bigfoot. I always thought it was because of my size 13 flip-flops.


Every morning, I clean enough hair out of the shower to make a Tribble. I shed like a yeti. The only problem is, it’s not growing on the tippy-top anymore. It’s not growing where it’s supposed to be growing. My hair is on a migration southward.


Tall people know I’m going bald. Luckily, the bushiness hides my baldness to most people of average and below-average height. I am so vain that I cover the top of my head when a helicopter flies over. To be honest, helicopters don’t fly over my head very often, but if they do, I’m ready to hide my balding pate.


I don’t want to become Comb-Over-Guy or Baseball-Hat-Guy, but I don’t want to become Trappist-Monk-Guy, either.


I know a lot of people who went bald at a much younger age, and, frankly, I’m about due to start losing my hair. I’m just thinking there should be a cheap way to get it from my ear canal back to the top of my head. Maybe if I hold my breath and blow.


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