Wednesday, October 27, 2010

In Memoriam...

Thank you all for coming. Recently my hair has been threatening to cut itself, like an unruly teenager. So, I (my hair's loving family) have staged this mock funeral to show how much we (the editorial "we") care about it.

(After taking this introductory photo, I realized that I should maybe give my hair a little more credit, and that it was all right to admit that it could be sexy. So I channeled Desperado-era long-haired Antonio Banderas and came up with this)

See, hair? You can totally pull it off.

I think my hair feels better already. Its hairy heart is being moved by all the pretty words we are saying about it. Let's have a look back at some of my hair's travels.

Here's a picture of my hair at the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota. There were many cowboy hats to try on, but my hair wasn't feeling very thin that day and trying things on probably would have just made it feel worse.

Ah and here's my hair posing with a burrito in Mexico. My hair is a bit of a racist, and its social commentary on the "dirty" Mexicans was to not be washed for most of the time. What an asshole. What? Oh AHEM HEM HEM... but we're here to remember the good times. Moving right along...

Here's my hair in a rare artistic piece. The photographer wanted to shock you with the contrast between a long, flowing head of hair and a bald, green head. Or perhaps one could interpret the receding hairline of the human subject to challenge the viewer to imagine him becoming the bald anthropomorphic reptile skilled in the arts of stealth and assassination.

And here is my hair taunting what it believes to be an Ewok. My hair is a Star Wars fanatic of almost religious devotion, and it was not pleased with the Ewok spin-off movies cashing in on what it considered to be non-essential and "stupid" characters. Don't even get it started on Jar Jar Binks.

Here is my hair when it was younger, embarrassing itself at a party. This was one of the many times my hair forced me to base a transition into a closing paragraph on a pun. After three beers, I told my hair I'd have to CUT IT OFF.

I can see that in your grief-stricken state, you're not in the mood for puns. Well of course it's the grief. At any rate, my hair is feeling a little better about itself, and has come out of its suicidal depression long enough to remind me that I'm in a rock band, and that if I cut it off, how am I going to get to be as sweaty on stage? My hair has greatly overestimated its understanding of things I like.


  1. Are you Sara's brother? Like THE Sara Without an H's brother?

    I feel like I hit some sort of hairpie jackpot. Or something.