Friday night the only thing I wanted to do was sit on my couch and be just an absolute degenerate. But as I walked past my hallway mirror I caught a glimpse of my reflection and stopped cold in my tracks. “No no no!” I declared out loud to nobody. “Not tonight. I CANNOT stay in and keep this treasure hidden all to myself.” It became clear as crystal what type of night it had become. It was a good flow evening.
I have a horrible head. You could land a 747 on my forehead. My Adam’s apple could slice an actual apple in half. My eyebrows look like they were drawn on by an eight-year-old who just learned what eyebrows were. When God was creating man in his likeness, assembly line style, he really screwed me in the neck to forehead region (aka the fucking face). I guess to make up for it, he worked a little OT on my locks.
People ask me how I make it look like I’ve been manning the wheel of a 19th-century clipper ship lost at sea. I tell them I don’t work for my flow; I make my flow work for me. What do I wash it with, you ask? Uh, what everyone washed it with for the first 195,000 years of human existence: water. Shampoos and conditioners are for chumps who don’t know the first thing about attaining perfect flow. Sure, sometimes I get complaints that my head smells like a wet cigar stuffed inside a gym sock, but at least there’s no frizz. That’s because it’s hard work. Hard goddamn work looking this good and making everyone else look this bad.
It doesn’t make much sense, either. Eighty percent of flow quality is genetic and comes from your maternal grandfather. My mom’s dad was as bald as an eagle when he was my age, and I’ve somehow maintained my successful career as a stand-in for James McAvoy. I shouldn’t even know who James McAvoy is, but I saw him in a commercial once and said to myself, “He’s a club member for sure.” There’s a worldwide club for guys with perfect flow. The reason you think that’s bullshit is because you’re not in it.
I should be lining up at center ice for the Chicago Blackhawks with the lettuce I’ve been blessed with. When women back home visit their stylist for a perm, they bring my high school yearbook photo (any year will do). A lot of guys I grew up with may have been smarter, more successful, and generally better human beings altogether than me. But they’re balding, and I still look 20. Domino motherfuckers.
Don’t mistake this for cockiness. It’s not my fault you don’t recognize the confidence that comes from being able to run your hand through pure, handspun silk whenever you want. Sure you can touch it, as long as you meet the following requirements: You’re a female or my capital R Roommate’s nephew Ben. He’s number one and already a club member.
I truly think this coiffed mop that’s on top of this big dumb head I’ve got is both a blessing and a curse. It’s like yeah, I’ll murder every job interview because they’ll be too spellbound by my waves to notice my résumé is one giant contradiction. On the other hand, I doubt I’ll ever be taken seriously for what’s below all the glitz and glamor of my upstairs penthouse. Now I know who’s being referred to when someone talks about the one percent.
I’ll leave you with a few tips on how to get and maintain the elusive look I’ve perfected. Make sure to follow these steps carefully and you’re well on your way to looking a little bit more like me:
Step 1: Don’t cut it.
Step 2: Don’t wash it.
Step 3: Lie down in traffic because your flow will never look as good as mine.