1. The last time I ran a comb through it, it got caught in the brambles and came out twisted and shaking, whispering of a fell power deep inside whose horrors may not be described. Mysterious scratch marks of the beast, or its minions, marked it's formerly smooth facade. And no matter how much I beseeched it to, it would not go in again.
Sometimes it clatters and falls off the stand on to the ground, late at night, and lies there shivering with great force. Surely it screams too. Perhaps at ultra-sonic frequencies.
2. I have a homeless family living inside. They come out at night.
3. I'm against plastic. Say No to combs.
4. I could comb. But the only thing that would look nice would be the 'just-out-of-bed' look. I decided to keep that look natural.
5. Ah, my children. Oh, yes. The little ones have grown up now, haven't they? And like all teenagers, they rebel and they fight and generally not do what I say. But that's alright. I understand my duties. As long as they stay true to their roots, I don't push. As long as they stay clean, I let them find their own direction in the wind. Individuality, my dear, must not be lost.
6. Forgot to. Yes, again.
7. The Indian team hasn't stopped winning since I stopped combing. You want to mess the balance? Play with the hearts of a billion people? No? I didn't think so!
8. I saw Sweeney Todd. And that reminded me of Edward Scissorhands.
Cut it. Trim it. Chop it off. Do something about it. Please! Do not enter my office again until you have taken a good bath. Can't you at least comb it?
Having heard enough of this hateful and prejudiced dialogue , I ask everyone who has a problem with horribly mess hair to please ... takidango. Take it. And go. The problem, not my hair.
More excuses for why I shouldn't cut/comb my hair are welcome.