I'll never forget when it came into my life. It was one of those glass-half-empty days when you have a pounding headache and the spins and you're beginning to believe that myth about your body slowly coasting downward after 21 may be true. I was eating cold pizza. My DVR was broken, and, so, I was also not fast-forwarding through the commercials when it started—a Volvo ad. What kind of Volvo? I couldn't tell you. You see, it wasn't the pretty car my eyes were fixed on. It was Robert Pattinson—specifically his hair region. I bit my knuckles. I can't remember if I said "s***" audibly or just to myself, but that moment signified a new beginning.
There are dudes out there, girl-liking ones mind you, who dig looking at pictures of other dudes, say, oiled up on Venice Beach throwing 450 pounds of iron over their bare chests while grunting. Motivation. This was the same. Except my guy was clothed, fully and decently, and had a mane that could put any other juiced-up coif to shame. I was sure of it.
It's foolish the things we do out of desperation, but, me being a dreamer, I tried to grow some of my own. One summer, I gave up cutting my hair only to discover that mine grows out rather than down and is littered with cowlicks. Still, I pushed on through fro-dom against my better judgment, reminding myself regularly of the goal. After reading Pattinson forwent shampooing, I went days, weeks, hell, even a month (true story) without washing so I could build up a nice, malleable coat. I'm certain I smelled—miserably. I saw an interview wherein Kristen Stewart revealed he pulled and twisted his righteously-splayed locks in the mirror and so, I, too attempted to become the master of my do, twirling and knotting with reckless abandon until someone asked me what that nest on my head was and I died a little inside and later gave in to my barber.