Poil-Mel

Question: Is a person too old for a faux-hawk if he has to taper it off into his bald spot? This was foremost in my mind this evening as I carefully crafted a landing-strip of my own. It is only the second time I've done this. The first time was on a birthday, my 33rd, I think, and it was clearly a dry-run at midlife crisis. It was effective, though, in making me feel different, if not necessarily younger, lifting me for a brief time out of a place into which I felt I was settling. The same is true of my present motives. I am hoping to disturb the state of affairs, hoping to cause a tiny jolt in the automatic movements of my life, force some surprises. I don't imagine it will last long; its effect or lack thereof will be made in a day or two, and it will become redundant. Truth is, I'm not sure how I feel walking around with my head looking like the mons of a mid-90s Playmate...

...which brings non-sequentially to mind the recent antics of that perennial charmer, Mel Gibson, whose recent tequila-fuelled joyride around Malibu ended in an anti-Semitic diatribe against a pair of arresting officers, one of whom, a female, Mel affectionately dubbed "sugar tits." Ah. Religion earns yet another glowing poster boy.