It was a Friday night at Yokerho, the kind of dive bar where the beer is cheap, the wings are nuclear, and every dude in the place had a story about benching something heavy. I walked in, hair flowing down past my shoulders like a goddamn Viking who just discovered conditioner. Freshly washed, slightly tousled from the bike ride over. Tonight, I was man. Full beard, flannel stretched across my chest, boots that could crush skulls. And the hair? The hair was the final boss.
First victim: Chad from accounting. You know the type—buzzcut so tight you could see his thoughts struggling. He was mid-sip of his IPA when he saw me. The glass froze halfway to his mouth.
“Bro… what the fuck is that sorcery?” he whispered, staring at my locks like they owed him money. “My wife keeps telling me to grow it out but I look like a sad golden retriever. Yours is… majestic. Like a lion that lifts.”
I just grinned and ordered a whiskey. The hair flipped a little as I turned my head. Chad’s hand involuntarily reached out before he caught himself. “Can I… touch it? For science?”
Next came the gym crew in the corner. Three meatheads who spent more time on their fades than their deadlifts. They were flexing in the reflection of the jukebox when I walked by. One of them actually dropped his beer.
“Bro, your hair has better volume than my ex’s extensions. How? HOW?”
Another one punched his buddy in the arm. “See? That’s what I’ve been saying! I grow it for two weeks and I look like a cancer patient. This man walks in looking like Thor’s hotter cousin. I’m shaving my head tonight. Fuck it.”
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