Things you will never hear me say: "My stylist..."

I've never exactly given enough fuck to be bothered to spend copious amounts of time trying to make my hair look all perfect. If it takes longer than about thirty seconds, I'm probably going to give up and just go out with it looking however it did when I lost interest often much to the chagrin of my wife. And I can't even remember the last time I actually paid somebody to cut it. The closest thing I've ever had to a stylist was my friend Jess, who used to cut my hair into mohawks and dye it green or blue or whatever sometimes until she moved to Far The Fuck Away, and I started just doing it myself. Mostly, I use the four-year-old method, which is where you just sort of grab and cut until it's generally shorter. Except most four-year-olds probably don't ask their wife to fix the spots they can't see so that it doesn't end up looking entirely ridiculous when they're done.

Pretty much, this is how I decide when it's time to cut my hair: I wake up, shamble over to the mirror, and look at my reflection. If I look like me, it's OK, but if I look like someone famous, it's probably time to cut it. Eventually.

In other news, this is still not a travel update. That's tomorrow.

Here's what I've inflicted on the rest of the interwebs:
This stuff is made of awesome.
Snark + tumblr = stumblr.

And here's some stuff the rest of the interwebs have given me in return:
Snoop gets technical.
Indiana Jones: not so much on the tenure track.
I've started doing this.
North Dakota has about the fewest zombie apocalypse danger zones of any state. Who's surprised?
DOCTOR WHO COMIC MAKER. SO. MUCH. WIN.

I'm pretty sure I got the better end of that deal.