It starts off innocently enough: you're born into this world with a head of thick, curly hair, which your mother and grandmothers and aunts and checkout-counter ladies all seem to adore.  You like the attention. It's a blessing, at first.

 third grade mini-fro

As you get older, you become jealous of other boys' hair.  They can spike it, part it, gel it, or let it grow long like a surfer dude.  Cowabunga! Your hair, on the other hand, has only two settings: short and afro, and the other kids make fun of it less when it's short.  You come to see those curls as a curse.  Ignoring some good advice you picked up somewhere, you take your light and hide it under the first bushel you can find.

short-haired with one of my younger (and currently bald) brothers

Like most people, you hit your prime in middle school.  You were confident, handsome, fleet of foot, and popular.  For a hairstyle, you deftly sported a mini Kid 'N Play look, with an island of hair perched atop an otherwise bald head.   It was a completely natural look for you, and your mother was heartbroken when you finally decided to retire the look after eighth grade.  Unfortunately, no photographic evidence survives.

like this, only cooler

The high school years come along, and not only have you  ditched your Kid 'n Play look, but you seem to have forgotten which bushel you stuck that light under.  It turns out you're a very skilled hider of lights. You're left with one haircut: short with a vague hint of curl.  You entertain small children with a "magic trick" that involves hiding a pencil in your hair, and that style carries you through the four years until graduation.

 never without a writing implement

The college years arrive, and with them, freedom.  With your new found independence you begin to let your hair down, which, due to your genetics, really means letting your hair up.  Your girl friends think its cute, which only encourages you more.  When it gets too shaggy you shave it completely, which, incidently, doubles your repertoire of hairstyles.

shaggy v. shorn

Before long you complete your studies and strike out into the real world.  You're no longer a slave to the one haircut of your youth.  So what if you can't spike your hair or look like a surfer dude?  Your third grade ambitions are a thing of the past.  You're working with what you've got, and doing a damn fine job of it.  You're no longer ashamed of your curls.  Then, to your horror, you watch as your younger brother, fully five years your junior, goes completely Michael Jordan bald in his early twenties.  You confront your mortality.  You realize you're only young once, and you shave your head less and less frequently, letting your shaggy locks take their natural course.

with the brother, flaunting it

"How high can it go?" you wonder. You decide to find out.  Little kids, not knowing any better, point when they see you walking down the street.  "Look at that man's hair, mommy!"

Mommy, didya see?

At least once a day a complete stranger comes up to you to comment on your hair.  People smile at you.  You get random high fives.  Some want to know how you get your hair to do that.  "I just wake up in the morning," you say, shrugging.  It's true.

the invitation to the wedding said "+1.5"

You're happy with your hair.  It's the way you were made. Chicks (your girlfriend, specifically) dig it. Waiters remember your order.  Your boss (thankfully) thinks it looks sharp in a suit. Gravity seems to have little-to-no effect on it.  NASA expresses interest.

 But not everyone likes your hair.  From time to time you catch a disapproving glance, one you were most likely not supposed to see.  An example? One morning, while you're pumping iron at the gym (one downside to big hair is it dwarfs your rippling biceps), you catch one of those glances from the horse on the treadmill across the room.  That may sound like a particularly degrading insult, but there actually was an equine on the treadmill that morning.  You knew you lived in a pretty liberal state, but you didn't realize quite how liberal.  And although he averted his gaze as soon as you made eye contact, you could tell that that horse did not think very highly of your hair.  You're understanding, however.  You know what it's like to be trapped with only one hairstyle, and that poor horse is stuck with that unfortunate mohawk.  Sure, that mane might have been bitching back in the early 80's punk scene, but now it just droops to the side, a sadly dated remnant of a "cool" long past.  You feel a bit sorry for the ol' fella.  You understand why he may be a bit snarky.  You know exactly where he's coming from.  After all, unlike other members of the animal kingdom, this poor ol' guy doesn't really have many options.

The hair bear bunch, flaunting it