By Will Sanders
April 4, 2014
By Will E Sanders
I like to set achievable goals for myself, the kind of objectives that require little if any hard work and effort. Many men set out to do great things and hold true to the goals they set for themselves. They become astronauts, professional wrestlers and presidents.
I just wanted to grow a ponytail. Hard to screw that up, in my opinion.
I like most ponytails. I like ponytails that are fitted on the posterior of ponies where they belong, and even the unfortunate ones that wind up on violin bows. But I like ponytails dangling from a buxom brunette in a bikini (playing volleyball, in slow motion) even better.
Ponytails on guys? I don’t know; that’s a pretty gray area for me. I mean, if you happen to be in a death metal band, then that is all right. If you are a beer-gutted, near-balding roadie for that same death metal band, then we have a serious problem.
By far, the worst ponytails are the super short ones. You know, the hair is ju-uuu-ust long enough for a guy to fashion it into a ponytail. Now that kind of ponytail is as popular with me as the Hitler mustache is to mustache aficionados.
Two kinds of human beings best exhibit this manner of ponytail. The stereotypical hipster in skinny jeans and wearing a shirt promoting a band that isn’t successful enough to garner national airplay. The other specimen is the college professor-looking types, with their hair bound tightly in a super-gross short ponytail. The look gives off a certain appearance of someone who is pretentious, pompous, pontifical and other words that start with the letter P that I just looked up in the thesaurus.
Naturally, all of these opinions quickly and coincidentally vanished once I — for the first time since high school — managed to ju-uuu-ust barely pull my hair back into an itty-bitty ponytail.
Do short ponytails even have a name? Baby ponytails? They should be called foal-tails, which isn’t funny unless you realize a foal is a baby pony.
My personal favorite is referring to mine as My Little Pony Tail.
All of this is Christine’s fault really. Please understand she coaxed me into it with her womanly wiles. Just try it, she said. So I put my hair in a ponytail as a joke and she said she liked it. She said I did not look prideful, presumptuous or even peremptory. She doled out compliments one by one.
My favorite was that my ponytail makes me look like an ugly Matthew McConaughey. That’s marked improvement over my normal self, which is an even uglier version of Steve Buscemi.
There were immediate side effects to this hair-rising experiment. Almost instantly, a deep smug attitude developed, but I did my best to fight it off. Then a sudden urge came over me. I felt the desire to clothe myself in a corduroy suit jacket with fake leather elbow pads, lift an old-fashioned pipe to my mouth and recite a litany of reasons why everyone should recycle and drive a so-called energy-efficient automobile.
I have since grown accustomed to the hairstyle, and I fret over my ponytail worse than an 11-year-old girl. I think the tightness of my ponytail is starting to severely restrict the blood flow to the crucial parts of my brain responsible for decision-making.
Putting my hair in a ponytail is quick, easy and negates the purpose of a shower. My hair is thick and it sits on my back like a mink coat. In the morning, my hair is every which way. I look in the mirror and I see an ugly version of Ludwig van Beethoven staring back at me.
The thing I love the most is the ponytail is the perfect style of hair for a lazy person like me. Running late as usual?
No problem, grab one of Christine’s hair bands and I will be ready in two shakes of a lamb’s ponytail.
To contact Will E Sanders email him at email@example.com. To learn more about Will E Sanders, to read past columns or to read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.