Scientific Breakthrough Connects Bad Hair to Obesity.

Over the past fifty years, pretty much since I popped the tag on my first Hostess pastry, I've been clutching a cold steel bar as it digs into my upper thigh meat. And once the carny released the lever, that thing's been locked on with no hope of escaping.

I've been an unwitting passenger on the body mass roller coaster. Having mentioned time and again in this forum my struggles with weight, I think I've finally broken through on the reason for my chronic teeter tottering between a stick bug and a blow pig. And heavens to Bertha, it's so simple.

Bad hair causes obesity. Boom.

Stick with me, here and I'll illustrate. Back in 1978, at age sixteen, I sported the feathered "butt cut"—parted hard down the center and feathered lightly to the sides like the down of a suckling chick (I just like that term even though birds don't suckle).

That's my mom on the right and my older brother on the left. This photograph portrays hair styles of the late 1970s. My mom's perm was a utilitarian option during the decade men and women alike.

My brother had recently been in a car accident and employed a utilitarian cut meant to cover the huge zipper down the top of his squash.

The accident, unfortunately, also robbed him permanently of any ability to smile for the camera gracefully.

Anyway, sorry, back to my point. My hair, while possibly a bit obnoxious if worn now, fell within the acceptable parameters of that era's bell-shaped curve. Hence, I was trim and healthy.

A few years later, my pate became a bit shorter and parted to the side, but still didn't make too bold of a statement. Hence, still slimmish and trimmish.

Pictured there is your humble bloggist pouring a nice Bartle's and James wine cooler to celebrate college graduation day. Apparently I also enjoyed really ugly ties and trying to look like a certain couch jumping Scientologist.












Once I ventured into the job market, I determined that the best look for my new career in fashion retail was, naturally, a mullet. But alas, as a consequence of this avant garde choice, my girth ventured into an heretofore unattained frontier.

It's hard to tell if this is actually me or a female fan whose license I found at the beer garden of a Dixie Chicks show.













Then things got a little freaky and my hypothesis veered of the rails a bit because I was thin during this period. I decided that the "business in the front, party in the back" statement should become repurposed to "all party, all the time."

My dad looks so proud standing next to Grateful Dead there. That may look like chicken but I'm sure ponytail boy probably talked him into grilling field roast drummets instead that afternoon.












A few years later, the hair got chopped—not completely, just enough to look ridiculous again. Naturally, this caused me to pack on the pounds like a giblet thief on Thanksgiving.

What's the deal with the sideburns? Holy shit. That's one fugly hipster sitting next to my bride.








Finally, after years of flailing in a sea of absurdity, I went short. And, wouldn't you know it, the fat fled faster than Karl Rove from a gathering of decent human beings.

That's my daughter a couple of years ago, just prior to her regimen of human growth hormone and argue-with-anything-you-say caplets.













So, yeah, I think I've got a fairly solid thesis here, no? Every time my 'do has vacationed in Crazy Town, my abdominal and moobular regions have expanded to Limbaugh-esque proportions.

Thank God I've finally figured this thing out. I was frighteningly close to dreadlocks.