People We Don't Like

FCN was emailed over the weekend by a delightful young lady who couldn't understand how three normally restrained and mild mannered students could be so mean to Cindy Sheehan. She wrote:

Who is Cindy Sheehan, and why don't you like her? (I didn't read the post; I read the title and the caution) Em.

First, Em, you gotta read the post. Sometimes the caution is a completely misleading doozy; counting on our sense of appropriateness and the warnings that make the beginning of posts is tantamount to relying on the Democrats for a tax cut. So read the post – warnings and all – and then write the hate mail.

Actually, because we are so desperate for any correspondence whatever, go ahead and email without reading the post (or any post for that matter). Just email away and we'll do our best to cut you down for it.

To answer the meat of your question, Emily, we need to explore this concept of people FCN doesn't like. Cindy Sheehan is one of many people who, while a God-made creature worthy of humane respect, we like about as much as an over-stuffed, cantankerous, smelly person who smells bad. With only a few exceptions, it's not that they're bad people, Emily, just that we don't like them.

And because this is our blog, we get to make fun of them,draw other's attention to their faults, and make stuff up about them that isn't true.

We don't like Cindy Sheehan because she abandoned an important movement and walked away before victory was achieved. She didn't fight the good fight. She dropped the flag. She's a sore loser, and the sad thing is, she didn't even have to lose. She left without saying goodbye, and we don't like that.

Sheehan is actually one of many people who can claim the dubious honor of being disliked by us. Unfortunately, measuring our tastes is a little like counting Lindsey Lohan's freckles – they keep changing – so we can't give you an exhaustive black list. We can, however, provide a brief snapshot of those names that are, currently, in the doghouse:

Al Sharpton – Because he's grating and because his hair is horrendous. Take the dead beaver back to the pet shop, Mr. Sharpton!

Markos Moulitsas Zúniga – Because he runs Daily Kos, which is stealing all our traffic and delaying FCN's internet supremacy by tens of millions of years.

Cardinal Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu – Because he's mean, and he has really cool facial hair that makes us look bad.

Dillary Clinton – Because she pretends to be Nancy and because she's mean to us.

Michael Savage – Because he's scary and he doesn't like Nancy.

Hugo Chavez – Because some of us don't watch TV.

Mr. Winther – Because he didn't take our advice. He even got his daughter to do his dirty work for him. Humph.

Mitt Romney – Because we're jealous of his Presidential looks and we just don't trust him.

Katie Holmes – Because she stole this handsome stud.

Russ Solomon – Because he lied to us.

Dr Bashar al-Assad - Because he always looks as if he just swallowed a rat. Freaky. Wait, does anyone like him?

A. A. Milne - Because he created a monster ten times freakier than frankenstein.

Bill Gates - Because he's rich, and we don't like rich people. Also, he corrupted our screens for five long years. He's been working his employees to the bone for much longer.

Khong hieu! (I don't understand!)

Last Friday, my world turned upside down.

My hair grows very slowly. When I decided to start growing it out last June, I knew I would need to take it seriously if I was to have any hope of getting it long enough to tie behind the neck. So I used fertilizers, implants, potions, and a healthy dose of Rogaine on a daily basis. I washed eggs through my hair. I cut the nibs during full moons. I sat in class meditating, mentally pushing the hair out of my head. I did therapies. I even used shampoo. For all my efforts, my hair grew at the rate of about two-and-a-half eighths of a centimeter per month.

Last Friday, I was mere weeks from a turning point in my do.

My hair growth was arduously slow, but nonetheless steady. I had two major styles. The most common was to pop a beanie onto my head while climbing out of the shower, then peel it off and wring it out when I clambered into bed that night. That strategy worked great, though of course it was always embarrassing when some smartypants yanked my covering off to reveal an epic mound of beanie hair. My second method - for when I was really going all out - was to stand on my head and lower my hair into a vat of gel. I would then shake my head once or twice, wipe my face with the back of my sleeve, and go on with my daily business.

Both these methods were about to be rendered obsolete, giving way to a dashing tied-back style reminiscent of, well, Richelieu. I was ready for a bit of a trim on the sides and back just to make sure everything was staying neat. So I wended my way to the salon of a very friendly but poorly incorporated Vietnamese family that cut hair for college student rates.

"I'm growing it out," I said, making emphatic gestures. "I want it layered. I want you to trim the sides and back a bit so the top can hang straight down rather than poofing out sideways." My stylist nodded and smiled, and began her work.

Apparently "I want it layered," sounds just like the Vietnamese for "I want it to look just like Sam H." My stylist moved with confidence and skill. She buzzed. She snipped. She measured. She trimmed. But mostly, she just buzzed.

"Dis goo?" She asked with a beaming smile.

"No," I said. "You're cutting it too short."

Her eyes got really big and she nodded enthusiastically. "Oooooh, too sho! Okay!"

The next thing I knew, my gorgeous head of hair - my pride and joy - had been knocked back to an unhealthy inch-and-a-half curly mess on the top of my head.

Still wearing that enthusiastic smile, she asked if that was what I wanted (or maybe she asked me to please pass the noodles and soy sauce).

"You can stop now," I said, biting back tears. "We're done." I paid her the two bits and wandered, distraught, into the parking lot. Then I leaned over and shook my head violently. My hair remained completely motionless. An hour ago it would have been streaming about in all directions in a fashion reminiscent of the entrance of the much-maligned Prince Charming from Shrek 2, who has very cool hair.

I was devastated. An hour later, I appeared at what amounted to a minor social function, and about forty people who had always pretended to be my friends stabbed me in the soft spot between my shoulder blades with insulting comments against my taste like: "It actually looks pretty good." It actually looked good when my hair was accidentally ruined!? How did my hair look when I was happy with it? Like Donald Trump, I suppose? Maybe these "friends" would prefer a crew cut! A buzz! Heck, why not shave it all off and get a dragon tattoo? Some consolation they turned out to be. Only one person really seemed to sympathize. I believe "Wow, your hair looks really bad," were her exact words.

My girlfriend dumped me the next day. She said it wasn't working. She said the chemistry was gone. She said she was in love with someone else. There were tears shed. She was pretty bummed about it, too.

Last Saturday, Mrs H came up to me and started talking to me about things I'd never heard of. After a few minutes of awkwardness, I interrupted: "Um ... I'm not Sam. That's your son way over there." It was at the moment that I resolved not to hold back. I would never go back for a haircut - never. I would grow my hair as long as it would get and let it fall out when it was done. I wouldn't comb it, clean it, or style it. This was to be a return to nature in a fashion that my next door neighbor, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, would be proud of.

I'm now on day 3, and there are no women in sight.

Shaving cream? What's that?

As you, the FCN faithful, already know, my facial hair situation was, if not dire, certainly untenable. As a side note, the previous sentence has more commas than any I've written in a long time.

Last Tuesday, an FCN reader presented me with a nifty two-bladed razor with a gorgeous red bow. The razor was dark blue, for those of you who were wondering. Later that day, a highly abusive and manipulative female forced me against my will to promise to leave a mustache and silk patch intact. I tossed the razor onto my very cluttered counter and went about my daily college student life. The next day, I had nearly forgotten about the whole thing.

Folks at school started calling me Shaggy. I was okay with that. Then they started calling me Scruffles. I was not okay with that. By the end of the week, they were calling me Chuck Norris, and I decided something needed to be done. My solution was decidedly non-Norris-esque. I went to the bathroom and broke out the razor.

The bow was tied on really well. I nearly busted a fingernail trying to untie it. After fifteen minutes of frustration, I gave up on the bow and started shaving. My manliness was offended. All I could see in the mirror was a gigantic ball of red ribbon streaking across my face.

I had already started shaving the left half of the mustache when I remembered my commitment. Oops. I shaved the right side to make the thing symmetrical and left it at that. The result was vaguely reminiscent of a famous 20th century German leader, but I thought nothing of it.

As it turns out, it was very convenient that I didn't have to shave in various places around my mouth, because the embattled razor went dull on me after only seventy minutes of shaving. I caught myself scrubbing the blades back and forth across my face like a toothbrush. Everyone who has used a razor and never employed the toothbrush method has secretly wondered what it's like. Now you're going to find out. At first, there's no sensation. You rub the shaved section and notice that it is now incredibly smooth, as if it's been sanded down. Then, after five to ten seconds, a light burning sensation starts to set in. After thirty seconds, it feels as if the whole scrubbed section is a gigantic patch of densely spaced shaving cuts. The real pain comes when you apply the aftershave. People have different ways of reacting to this. Mine was to scramble, screaming, through the tiny window over the shower and into the dog kennel twenty feet below.
The window was closed. Stress on the was.

I now have a patch of razor burn on my left cheek about the size of a post-it note. But my facial hair is properly corrected, and I look and feel respectable. My commitments have been met.

Now if only my homies would quit calling me Richelieu.