Sometimes shit happens or a conversation creeps up on you and you gotta wonder “How the fuck did I get here?”

The phone rings (again). “Yeah, Hi, uh huh. Remember I mentioned my boss is coming back from vacation and I’m very busy…”

It’s M. of course: “Yeah. OK. Listen, though, I have to talk to you about a couple of things. Um, OK.”

Me: Nothing (as I wait for shoe droppage or what have you)

M. : “I’m very unhappy…”

Me: Silence as paranoia begins to seep into my brain

M.: “OK, I’m very unhappy… WITH MY HAIR.”

Nice One. I can’t decide if (a) he was born melodramatic; (b) He’s learned to be a diva from me or ( c) He thinks he’s living in an episode of “Punk’d.”

Turns out his new hairdo is making him crazy. He likened it to a mullet, which is fucking crazy. (Shorter in front does not mean you’re instantly Cletus at the State Fair.)

So, we went over to the place I discovered this weekend, and Jason helped him out by shaggifying and evening out what he had. Now we both have pretty cool, might still have a little small bit of hip left in our aging selves hair styles. A picture will have to be forthcoming.

Truth be told, I think he’s mourning the inches he lost in the last cut. This change was a bit too close to mainstream and leaving the great, thick, luxuriant head of Asian-hippie-Kung-Fu-Jungle-Book hair.