I hate hair. I mean it. It disgusts me, probably to ridiculous proportions.

Now, don’t get me wrong, my wife has long, beautiful hair. It’s gorgeous, especially when she curls it and does whatever women do to make it look all wet and sassy. I love that. I love being close to her and having her hair fall all around me.


The second one of those hairs leaves her head, it’s a repulsive demon, enemy of all that is good in life, and a horrifying object, especially when it clumps together in wet groups and attacks with sticky, sloppy, clingy abandon.

OK, maybe it’s not all that bad. Wait, on second thought, yes it is. I mean, I know I haven’t been able to prove, yet, that wet, clingy hair clumps are conscious beings controlled by a powerful evil demon out to destroy the world, but I fully believe they are.

But then, that’s my old roommate’s fault, and I’ll tell you why.

Back when I was in college, I had one particular roommate who was easily the hairiest guy I’d ever met. I swear, he was part guerrilla, baboon, or simply bathing in Rogaine on a daily basis, something, I don’t know. All I know is he could probably have made a very comfortable living selling his hair to wig makers without ever having to seek any other employment whatsoever.

I mean it, this dude was hairy, and he shed like a cat.

Naturally, he wasn’t much on showers. He was one of those greasy, hairy dudes that water just sort of repelled off of anyway. He’d take a shower every two or three days, but he’d only be in the bathroom at most five minutes and then he’d be done, back out, and fully dressed.

However, in the 2-3 minutes he actually spent in the shower, he could hair the place up more than the other five of us that lived there could do in a month!

Seriously, he’d plug the drain with hair, leave hair on the shower curtain, the walls, the floor, the sink, everywhere! It was sickening. At times, I wondered if he actually took a shower while he was in there or if he just spent five minutes plucking and flinging.

The real problem, however, was that he simply refused to ever do anything about it.

Every single time he took a shower, he’d leave the drain plugged. I’d go in hours later and there would still be standing water in the tub. I’d have to reach down and pull a gigantic wad of coarse, black, nasty hair out of the drain. Every single time!

It was disgusting!

Finally, I got very, very tired of it and decided to try and make a point.

So, I borrowed another roommate’s computer and printed up a nifty little sign for him. It showed a picture of a hairy caveman, a shower, and a big nasty clump of hair blocking the shower drain, and it read: “Upon leaving the shower, please take your hair with you!”

Now, you would think he’d get the hint from this, right? I stuck it right on the bathroom door!

But no, nothing changed. The only thing I accomplished was getting a couple of my other roommates to look down on me like I was being a rude bully. Yeah, they actually acted like I was bad for teasing him about his hairy condition or something.

Can you believe that? I couldn’t believe it. I’m sorry, but telling someone to clean up after themselves is not rude. Leaving your soggy sheddings for someone else to extract from the plumbing, now THAT’s rude.

I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just being squeamish. Maybe I’m making too much out of nothing. Maybe I’m just hair-o-phobic. Or maybe I’m right and there really is a hair demon slowly, stealthily, sneaking his little hairy minions in to every corner of the world, waiting for the day he has one absolutely everywhere so he can launch a devastating, instant, global attack and subvert the world into filthy, slimy, drain clogging submission!

Or, maybe not.

Either way, I’d still love to find my hairy old roommate and send him some industrial strength hair clippers for Christmas — or maybe a weed whacker — and a note that says: “Dear Hairball, the Eskimos have run out of caribou hide for making parkas. Can you help?”

By arnia