Sunday Newscape Magazine

The story you are about to read is true. First, some background. A few years ago, I made my living exclusively as a freelance writer. During this time, I wrote for a variety of clients - from Time Warner who owns everything to a printing company in Blue Ridge, Georgia that didn’t even own a telephone (amazingly, they were the only client I’ve ever had that paid in full and on time).

My hair and I have long had a love/hate relationship. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy to have it and, considering my 94-year-old grandfather still sports a full head of hair, I’m not worried about it going away any time soon. But still, I can’t help but be pissed at it. It’s thick. It’s coarse. It feels like a steel Brillo pad. And it never lies down flat. Never.

I’m in a bad mood. On the mood scale, with One being “singing Disney birds” and Ten being “if I see even one more magazine about Brangelina in the grocery store checkout line, I’m gonna slash my wrists with the subscription card,” I’d say I’m at a solid Eleven.

Show of hands, guys. How many times have you been sitting in your living room, beer in one hand, backup beer in the other, watching the game (the one where the next 2.7 seconds, give or take an hour, will single-handedly determine the fate of everything you hold most sacred), when out of the corner of your eye you notice that old bookcase of yours and suddenly realize what’s been bugging you for months, maybe even years,