Wow, the column I wrote a little more than a month ago regarding the mop on top of my head elicited more of a response than almost all the rest of my weekly ramblings combined.

I suspect this has less to do with the "quality" of that column and more to do with Jim Atwell's use of some of the content as fodder for putting together two excellent hair pieces (pun shamelessly intended) of his own. My more-established and better-styled colleague apparently stirred up a truckload of memories with his fond recollections of the sights, scents and sounds of barber shops and many indicated they too had fond experiences in one of the last bastions of maledom.

A byproduct of all this attention on the topic of hair was that several people passed along advice to me about how I could better untangle the wild locks upon my head.

They suggested places to go, techniques to ponder and at least one mystic ritual that sounded illegal all in the hopes of helping me find some way of dealing with the disaster I call a hairstyle.

Which - in all honesty - I plan to universally ignore.

It's not that I don't appreciate the efforts from helpful readers to assist me in this dilemma. And it was sort of reassuring to receive verification that, yes, my hair is an unruly mess. The problem is that I think I lost sight of the main point I wanted to make somewhere in the shuffle of last-minute cuts we had to make in light of space constraints. The point being that I think hair is stupid.

Profound, right? I can almost see my tongue sticking out and a childish expression on my face as I write that last sentence.

But seriously, why do we spend so much time fixated on such silly superficial features like our hair? I'd guess that hundreds of millions of dollars is spent every year on hair products, hair cuts and hair care. It's insanity embodied in a bottle of expensive goo.

Plus, the advantages of a "style" like mine are near endless. While I may never have had a decent 'do, I've also never had to worry about wind, rain or seagulls messing up my hair.

If it weren't for my desire to look professional - a term I use very loosely when applied to myself - in my capacity as a journalist, I'd probably get my hair cut twice a year and only during hunting season, so as to avoid the possibility of being confused as a bear or rabid beast of some kind.

Of course, you've probably figured out the real reason for all this renewed griping: it's time for another haircut soon.

Maybe this one will go better than the last.