"You know it's not practical, Hank. Any one of those goons that seem to like to invade the compound, and step all over my kentucky bluegrass while they're at it, could just tear it right out of your follicles. Not to mention, you look like a sissy."
"You're one to talk, Pop. You don't have any! Anyways, what about Brock? He has long hair and he was our bodyguard!"
"First of all, I do have hair. I just shave the sides for fashion purposes, Smartypants. Secondly, Brock doesn't have to worry about men grabbing his hair because he's gone through years of training. Plus, it suits him. It makes him look like John Rambo with a perm… Well, a good perm… It just makes you look like some weird trucker woman who likes to go spelunking down at the strip clubs off the freeway. The ones where girls get in free and the dancers 'just want to have a good time'."
Hank fiddled with a lock of his blonde mop and glared up at his father over his cereal bowl.
"Well, it's my head and I can grow it out if I want to. You aren't the boss of my head, Pop."
"I am too the boss of your head and I'm the boss of your keister as well. Now I want that keister to get out of this kitchen and go get itself a haircut. I don't want you coming back with one of those 'fashion' cuts either. If I see you with some sort of fancy 'flock of seagulls' type business I'll just boot up H.E.L. 's 'barber' function, and we all know how that worked out last time."
Hank swallowed the lump in his throat. How could he forget being shaved almost bald on one side of his head and having the other half covered in razor scratches and band-aids for a week.
Hank lifted his bowl and chugged down the last of the milk and soggy stale 'Wheatie-Os' that were engorging themselves on the bottom; letting the white liquid dribble out the corners of his mouth in what he thought to be a 'devil-may-care' fashion.
"If you care about my hair so much, why don't you just marry it?" Hank snapped and stormed out the door.
"People don't marry somebody's hair unless they are very sick in the head, boy!" Doc called after his unruly son, "And don't think of coming back to this compound without a neat and tidy display on top of that potato of yours you call a head!
