I’m about to get a haircut, and I’m sure Nikki is secretly taking bets on how much I will look like David Hasselhoff when I get home.  My haircut guy is really good, but like any car accident, once you get close to the Hoff you can’t help but get closer and closer to it.  The haircut itself isn’t a “Hoff”, but he cannot escape the gravity well of turning it into one the closer he gets to letting me leave.  It must have something to do with my steadily receding hairline, built-in curliness and my rugged European good looks.

Every time I insist that I don’t blow it dry, it’s really not necessary.  But he starts anyway (ignoring the pleading look in my eyes), and the more he dries it, the puffier and Michael-Knightier my hair gets, and the hairier my chest gets.  It’s not a path that, once started, a mere mortal can stray from.  I guess I’m just happy to still need haircuts at this point, but it’s a risk I have to manage carefully.  You have no idea how strong the urge is when I leave to forget the car, rip off my shirt and shoes and jog home in slow motion, tossing my curly mane lustily.

The Hoff is inescapable and powerful, and is not to be trifled with.