I recently received an embarrassingly poor haircut.  But I don’t blame the barber.  I don’t blame myself either.  I blame the system.  You see, whenever I go to the barber, I never know what to say.  I don’t take in a magazine clipping of a male model (not anymore), and I don’t have any grasp of cool hair-style lingo so I can’t say “Hey Tom, give me the Memphis Sizzler.”  Since I get my haircut at a veritable co-op, I never have the same barber twice and I generally sit in the chair, take my beating and then head home where I complain to my ladyfriend about the atrocious cut I got.  That is, until recently when I realized that the rules for effective barber/hair-cut-recipient communication are clearly outlined in Full House!

Men’s haircuts can be broken down into three distinct styles: the Danny, the Uncle Joey and the Uncle Jesse.  If the entire cosmotology world can learn to distinguish between these, we could create a universal language by which all men can walk into any barber shop and get the cut he desires.

The Danny: clean-cut, respectable, no bells and whistles.  With this hair cut, you won’t ever be asked to stand in a police line-up, but at the same time, you might be accused of being a douche bag.

The Uncle Joey: a little shaggy, a little unkempt.  When you wear the Uncle Joey hairstyle, you’re telling people that you’re not afraid to color outside the lines, and if anyone gives you any shit, you’ll fire back an outdated impersonation.

The Uncle Jesse:  Due to his status as a renaissance man of hair, it’s necessary to tackle Uncle Jesse’s hair in two separate eras. 

1) The early years: bangs in the front, poof on top, long mane of hair in back.  Classic 80s rocker look, the Early Uncle Jesse (abbreviated as “The EUJ,” pronounced “yuge”) is as hardcore as it gets.  This look tells people you party all night long, run up twelve thousand dollar hotel bills and carry a little black book that looks like Webster’s Dictionary. 

2) The later years: clean-cut on the sides, slight sideburns, a little spikey on top.  Does life imitate art or vice versa?  The Later Uncle Jesse (abbreviated as “LUJ,” pronounced “luge”) knows the answer, but he doesn’t give a shit enough to tell you.  He’s a mature rocker, a father, and with this hair style tells people “I’m a responsible, law-abiding citizen, but don’t think I’m too old to throw down with an eight ball of coke and a fifth of wild turkey.” 

If you read this, please pass the word on to your local barber.  There’s a secret underground of barbers, a union, a brotherhood.  Get this information in your barber’s hands, and quickly word will spread to barbers around the world.  One day soon you can walk in to a random barber shop, take a seat, calmly turn to the barber and say: “I’ll have an Early Uncle Jesse.  I’m feeling… dangerous.”

(from left to right: Uncle Joey, Uncle Jesse, Danny Tanner)

 So, last week a friend of ours came over to see if we wanted him to be our “financial advisor.”  We thanked him for trying but weren’t interested, perhaps because we lack the necessary funds required to become interested.  Regardless, it made me think about how personal money management is a world with completely ambiguous rules, and this world is governed by my Aquafresh.

Living in Los Angeles, the cost of living is rather absurd.  If you meet a friend for drinks, you can easily spend over $100.  Or last night for example, dinner with the lady on a Monday night at a place that’s nothing more than a glorified sandwich shop and we dropped $75 like it’s no big deal.  However… when it comes to my Aquafresh, I’m like King Kong, scaling a skyscraper with Ann Darrow in my clutch. 

So what’s the deal?  It’s a $4 tube of toothpaste, I’ve squeezed a good 90-100 uses out of it over the past month or two.  So I do the math and I’m looking at about 4 cents per use to keep my teeth from falling out.  Deal of the century.  I’d be willing to pay five or ten times that amount to keep a handle on these pearly off-whites.  So how can I carelessly drop $100 on afterwork drinks yet refuse to toss my Aquafresh until I have absolutely squeezed the life out of it, and totally exercised all four toothpaste maximizing techniques:

1) Back to Front Push Maneuver
2) Fold Tube in Half Maneuver
3) Curl and Fold from Back to Front Maneuver
4) Curl and Fold from Back to Front and then Apply Pressure with the Butt of Your Palm or Your Foot or Any Other Heavy Object You Can Find in the Bathroom Maneuver

This  bizarre ritual is just one small example of the type of inconsistencies we face (and create) on a daily basis as we attempt to manage our personal finances.  Perhaps it’s because the tube of toothpaste is completely within our control and we can ultimately determine how long we hold onto that tube and how far we push its capacity.  Or perhaps we’re not our true selves when we’re out at a bar or a restaurant, and it’s only when we’re all alone in our bathrooms, staring at our tired faces in the mirror that we can be the tight-wad people we always knew we were deep down.  Who knows?

But what I do know is that when it gets to the end of my Aquafresh, I always giggle at this habitual oddity.  And I’m reminded of how I should probably treat more of my financial “scenarios” in this same manner.  Ah, but life’s too short, you might as well sit back, enjoy it and order up another $15 gin and tonic…

Doc Brown : Marty McFly  ::  Me : This Blog

That being said, if you have a dreadfully monotonous job that takes place in a stale office building, like me, then let me explain a little game that can help to keep things interesting.

Okay, to play this game you’ll need the following items:
-Crappy Job
-An elevator
-Condoms

Okay, you don’t really need condoms.  The game goes as follows:

STEP 1:

Next time you’re riding in an elevator, whether it be in your office building, a shopping mall or wherever else, don’t just stand there.  No.  Instead, visualize your next street-fighting opponent.  Imagine you’re some type of martial arts guru ready to ‘lay the hurt’ on the next person who enters the elevator.  Think about your plan of attack: a punch to the face?  Perhaps you’re more of a round house kind of person, or even a knee to the gut or groin.  The world’s completely your oyster, so be creative.  Once you’ve visualized your attack maneuver, you’re ready to move on to step 2.

STEP 2:

Wait for the elevator doors to open and reveal to you who you’ll be fighting.  Factor in the person’s age, sex, build and weight and visualize how well (or poor) your fighting strategy might have worked out.  For example, if it’s an elderly woman and you had planned a spin kick to the chest, then odds are you would’ve been victorious in your fight. 

Step 3:

After the person has picked their standing spot in the elevator, give him or her a confident, knowing nod; a nod that says “I could have crushed you today, but since I’m such a nice person, I decided to let you go on living to fight another day.” 

Step 4:

Take a defensive stance, re-focus and await your next opponent.

Perhaps I’ve lost touch with what is and isn’t cool… or perhaps I’ve grown close-minded in determining what defines a douche bag.  Either way, I find myself constantly annoyed (and oddly afraid) of the “Saviators” (Suit + Aviators).  You see them, you know them, you hate them. 

What is it about too much hair gel, a really sharp designer (knock-off) suit and a pair of aviator sunglasses that makes douche bags feel cool?  I have it the worst.  Across the street from my day job (where I work saving people’s lives… but not really) is a machine shop called William Morris Agency.  William Morris has invented a system that turns creative ideas into poop, that poop into nuclear energy, and then that nuclear energy into money (patent pending, U.S. 38929993).  (if/when I’m repped by WMA one day, I will delete this blog entry and deny its existence.) Anyway, WMA is creating an army of Saviators from their interns, to their office lackies to their junior agents in training wheels and they’re ready, willing and poised for battle against normal people everywhere.  It’s almost as if orientation involves a field trip to my good friend George Zimmer’s wearhouse, where these newbies are forced to shed their current duds, prison-style, and after being sprayed down with a hose and checked for lice, they’re handed their new suit, to be worn with pride.  You see, to create a true Saviator, the douche bag must be “broken” first, and then recreated in Ryan Seacrest’s image.  Of course there’s a trip to The Sunglass Hut on the way back to the office and, depending on the collective behavior of the new Saviators, a quick stop by Sprinkles for cupcakes.