Fleekin Floygn

I have seen my future and it is not pretty.

A gentleman on my floor has perhaps the slickest comb-over I have ever seen. I had always assumed that this youngish guy (29? 30?) had a slightly out-dated do in the form of the gelled 1999 cowlick. However, upon close inspection, one can see that, in fact, the hair actually begins at the very top-back of his hair (about where the ‘bald spot’ is) and works its way up to the front, probably totaling a good 7 inches in length. It would have been remarkably convincing if not for the fact that on this particular day, the hair on either side had crept up slightly, revealing the place where on a full head of hair there is a part between the “top hair” and the “side hair”. However, rather than a part, there was simply “no hair”.

Now I am not what some people would call modest when it comes to personal appearance. I try to have a sense of style, with diverse influences and flair that is original but not over-the-top. So two years ago, when my hairline started receding faster than the Beauty & the Beast villagers when getting their asses handed to them by the animate objects of the enchanted castle (it’s my metaphor; go with it), it was not a small deal. I fully went through the 5 stages of grief:


1. Denial – “No, really, I’ve always lost an average of 256 hairs with every comb stroke”

2. Anger – “WAAAAAAAAAAH! Not fair! This should be happening to some Tub o’ frosting-loving, Wal-Mart cart-riding, stained sweat-suit-enthusiast hambeast from Transcona, not me! This is my ‘Nam, man! Gah! I will fully devote myself to the servitude of the Dark Lord in exchange for a less prominent brow! I am Faust! I AM FAAAAUUUST!”

3. Bargaining – “Um, God? Hiya. I may have been a leeeeeeeeettle bit rash before with the whole rallying behind Satan thing. Here’s the thing though: I need this hair. It’s really the only gimmick I’ve got, cause the six-pack isn’t happening and, well, I’m kind of an asshole sometimes. Ok, frequently. So maybe, just let me have half of it back, and I will totally let those pawing Menno kids be my friends. Two-thirds and I’ll even throw in a couple of Jews.”

4. Depression – “I will die alone and unloved. Just like Frasier.”

5. Acceptance – “…” (Ok, so I haven’t technically reached this one yet)


While I haven’t fully accepted my follicley-challenged dome, I am proud to say that the recession (while not having corrected itself) has stopped and along with my stylist (who I can never, ever leave. Ever.), I have developed a largely-inconspicuous hair style, designed for my needs as well as those of the sick fuck I will eventually coerce into loving me. The word ‘comb-over’ is an ugly one, and really, I don’t have a comb-over. It’s simply a bohemian marvel of modern construction, held in place with a series of gels, waxes and sprays. However, it still isn’t a comb-over. Not yet anyway. (That is the deal, isn’t it, Red?)