The length of my hair is about the same as the height of these letters, and that's a few days after being cut, or rather buzzed. Sheared to millimeters by Sunbeam. For years it's been this length. Not even hair, more like ambitious scalp. A disturbing shadow on a head x-ray, warranting further tests. Yet I still use shampoo, and furthermore I still use the same generous dollop I used when I had longer hair. I don't have a problem with this, in fact I have a certain proprietary fondness for my own stupid habits. I always squirt too much shaving cream out, you know the concentrated kind that swells into an aromatic meringue? Half of it goes down the drain and I always curse my wastefulness, then I do the same thing the next time, and before you know it the summer olympics are back. My flossing method is not textbook to say the least, it's atrocious and clumsy and suggests repeated attempts to garrote a hamster that's taken refuge in my mouth, but it gets the job done. What goes on in my bathroom is nobody else's business unless you're an invited guest or an invited guest's hot younger brother. You should see what dreadful acts I can perform with a Q-tip. Did you know Q-tips used to be called Baby Gays?