Most days I am able to tame my mop of half-curly, half-whatever hair into something that looks like this:
Not terrible. Tame. Not too bad.
But at night, while the world sleeps, my hair has a secret life.
It calls itself "The Bomber" and puts Jack Bauer to shame with its relentless search for the truth.
It drives too fast, swerves the wrong way down one way streets - but always, always stops for old ladies in the crosswalk.
My hair stays up wicked late - well past three a.m. - and drinks bourbon from the bottle, sometimes without even stopping to breathe.
It knows what LSMFT means, because it smokes unfiltered cigarettes like a World War II soldier.
It knows how to take one for the team, but it's a go-it-alone kind of mop.
My hair fights crime at night. It cruises the city, listening to the police scanner until it picks up a robbery, or a domestic abuse call. Then it speeds on over and sorts those fuckers out.
It doesn't break the law, but it lives on the edge, taking one day at a time - vigilante style.
How else would you explain this:
Come on, you're jealous, right? Right?