Do you know what I'm singing? Well, you fucking should.
1) You're cooking dinner. Squeezing a lemon as it happens. Your four year old approaches. She bears your beige baseball hat.
'Why must there be a beige?' you ask yourself.
'Here you go, Daddy,' she says.
'Thank you,' you say, quizzically.
'It's cold outside,' she says.
'Oh, okay,' you say, acceptingly.
You put on the hat. She moves away, satisfied. She goes to her sister in the sunless sun room.
'Now he's handsome,' she says.
2) You begin a spin class with a reasonably big barnet, somewhat offset by a burgeoning beard. You spin. You enjoy occasionally pushing a sweat dampened hank of hair behind your ear. The class ends. You turn and see yourself in the studio mirror. Your blood turns to freeze pop in your veins. Your head pubes are now considerably larger than your head. There is a lot of frizzage. You look, in fact, like a strung-out Art Garfunkel, but an Art who has been beaten up, trodden down, fucked over.
So I guess it's time. I'm going to walk into the first rug-rethink joint I can find and ask the following question:
'What can I get for 10 dollar?'
And if I don't get the answer I'm looking for then I'm walking the fuck back out.
I really want long hair, you see.
The pleasure of winning a meaningless internet competition, and as the only person to have scored a 'Bad Ambassador The Friday Album Cover' hat-trick, I can assure you that this is a very deep pleasure indeed, goes to the commenter who can successfully answer the aforequestioned question.