I can’t figure it out. Men who work in cities, the kind who work in offices, you know… suits, polished shoes, strong chins – the kind you see in expensive bars between six and eight PM on a week night; they’ve all got hair. Real hair, big waves of propped up hair. How does that work?
It doesn’t seem to matter how old they are. Thirty, forty, fifty… they’ve got the same hair, a lot of the same hair. It’s real, I know real - I can tell a fake, I’m a student of hair.
Is it wealth and nastiness that puts hair on their heads? How would hair know how much money you have in your wallet? Does DNA understand the workings of modern economics, or is this the survival of the fittest hubbub?
Don’t think the idea’s too silly. I’ve noticed that the guy who’s most likely to knock you right off your bar stool in order to get a whiskey sour for himself is usually the guy with the biggest head of hair. He’s also the guy who shouts over everyone in the bar to be heard. You see where I’m going with this?
Think about it. Way back, when we were covered in hair, head to toe, grunting around, wondering what it would be like to stand up straight, that’s when it all started. The guy who wanted that prime cave next to the swamp, the one who didn’t think twice about bashing in the brains of the Neanderthal family living in there already, he’s the one with the jet-set hair today. He’s the one waving his meaty fist with a hundred-dollar bill squeezed into it up at the bar - This is our modern, city-dwelling yuppie. A Neanderthal.
That’s the way it is. Don’t call me and start yelling, it won’t do any good. I’m submitting a paper to Scientific America. It’s in the envelope. I licked the stamp myself.