Fukashima Do'

My hair reached critical mass some point last night while I was sleeping. That is to say, not that my brain had a melt down, or my scalp became radio active. Rather, the length and volume of my hair reached that magical point where rather than looking robust and clean, or long and healthy, the two have combined to create a powerful force for chaos and mismanagement. Even with the aid of heavy products, creams and pastes thicker than any peanut butter devised by George Washington Carver in his wildest nightmare, my do' has become a wild hive of asymmetry, jutting out in random directions, as if drawn by a drunk Japanese animator.

So the question I must now ask myself; cut back this uncontrollable mess and bring us right back to square one, closely cropped and finely tuned, near-aerodynamic coif? Or power through, damn the consequences, and dare to look a little ramshackle a few weeks until the weight of the locks overpowers the sheer density, and we settle into the era of long, luxurious hippie hair (except cleaner, and not a drop of tie-dye in sight).

Decisions, decisions.