I know you’ve been aching to know more about my hair, so let’s talk about that.

My earliest hair-related memories (besides seeing my Dad with his shirt off) involve my mom shuffling me off to her salon in Eau Claire. She’d have one of the ladies cut my hair as I entertained the entire shop with my unbearably cute jokes and witty anecdotes, mostly about what imaginary pets I owned, which ranged from puppies to giraffes. That giraffe shtick knocked ’em dead. I had those lovely smock jockeys hanging on every syllable.

And I’m reasonably sure spending hours in a hair salon at such a young age with multitudes of middle-aged women had little to no effect on my personality and/or social skills and/or relationships. Right? That’s normal, right? Right?

The shop was called Joanna’s or The Style Chalet or Locks o’ Plenty or Miss Sissy’s Fancy Frilly Curlicue Boutique of Tresses and Pantyhose Emporium or something like that. I have no idea. (By the way, if I had my own hair salon, I’d call it Bangs!) All I really know is this – it was located in that strip mall up where Clairemont Avenue meets the old U.S. Highway 53, next to where Old Country Buffet used to be. And now, like the OCB (RIP), it’s gone.

Beyond learning what makes an older woman chuckle, I really didn’t think much about my hair until sixth or seventh grade. That’s when I discovered what hairspray can do. Like many pre-teen and early-teen boys (and all real estate agents), I had a whole routine for my hair. I had a couple kinds of product. I had a special comb. It was awesome. My father was so proud.

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I’d take this little brush to school with me and, after lunch, I’d sneak into the boys bathroom, and use it to “break” my hair – brushing out the shellac.

MIKE PAULUS

I was in eighth grade when things really got rolling. My hair was tall in the front. Tall-tall. A majestic tower of follicle flair. I’d get it all done up, then I’d hairspray it. And hairspray it. We’re talking aerosols. I’d take this little brush to school with me and, after lunch, I’d sneak into the boys bathroom, and use it to “break” my hair – brushing out the shellac. That way, it was still towering and awesome, but now it looked totally natural. Yep. A totally natural bluff of hair perched atop my noggin. Not a strand out of place.

And I’m betting all you gentlemen out there did something similar. Well, most of you. You Amish fellas reading this probably wore hats throughout your teen years, so you don’t count.

I got a little less obsessed in high school, and by college, the super hair cliff (SHC) was gone. And by the time I was working in downtown Eau Claire and deciding to spend my lazily earned cash on a local, non-franchise barber, I wasn’t even using product. I went to a lady with a shop near the Grand Avenue footbridge, trusting her with the full-bodied legacy sprouting from my scalp.

Besides scissors, this lady used razors. She was a trained barber, so she could shave your face with a big, shiny blade. The first time she asked if I’d like her to shave my sideburns, I said yes, and – SHONG!

What looked like a highly polished survival knife popped out beside my head. I’m sure it wasn’t all that big, and I’m sure it didn’t make a SHONG! sound, but we were all alone in her dusty, old shop, and I remember thinking, “No one else knows I’m here right now.”

But I survived. Today, my mother-in-law cuts my hair, and she does a very fine job.

For all you young men out there, gallantly standing before the mirror to style your hair each morning (and afternoon and right before sixth period), I guess I’d recommend a moment of reflection.* Where is all this gel getting you? What do you hope to accomplish … with your hair? Who are you trying to impress?

I can guarantee you that no one will look at your head nearly as much as you will. So do whatever makes you happy. The sooner the better.

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*See what I did there?