Ctenophile

If you know me, you know that I've never been too in to haircuts. I mean who cares, right? I'm no Kardashian, no Beckham or Ronaldo. Those jerks wouldn't know what to do with a comb if it was one of their fingers anyway. Regrettably, my current obsession seems to mirror their occupational narcissism. In fact, in the past my coif has been the last thing I trouble to worry over, if it even ranks as a worry at all. For the most part my philosophy has remained to let nature takes its course, for better or worse (the latter most often prevailing in the form of nature's beloved mullet). But recently I've altered my position. I've taken to my comb with a fervor not known to any object in my life, save for my iPhone. Why the change you ask? I can't say. My cowlick remains as bothersome as ever, and I don't particularly enjoy spending the extra time grooming myself before leaving the house.
Nevertheless, I seem to breathe merely to style the fine strands of hair that I feel so lucky to possess. Maybe it's phalacrophobia, or maybe I just never knew how good I could look (no, that's not it; I've always known that). Maybe it's a way to ensure my beautiful girlfriend doesn't walk out the door in seek of a less unkempt man. I'm not sure, but I seem to feel that serendipity went to work on me during a recent viewing of O Brother Where Art Thou and a subsequent 3 AM haircut that Peter gave me after a No Bunny show. Maybe it was a longtime latent infatuation with John Dillinger. No matter though, this turn of events has taken place, and, with my new residence, I fear there is no turning back. For a mere 40,000 đồng, the equivalent of $2.50, I can get a hair cut, a shave, and little manhandling on my neck and shoulders.
Observe.