Mr. Potato Head is a fun toy I guess, but it is a lot less fun when weird furry decorations are sticking out of all its holey orifices. What concerns me most is not my main mane which I CAN see, but the tangled mass of random follicles that I can’t. Who knows what kind of evil plot of land is lurking behind my back at this very moment? For all I know beyond that dark mysterious canyon back there, my hind-spine has probably grown a shaggy Amazon jungle, replete with rare species of wooly ‘Man-moths’ and bushy bearded dragoons.
Oh sure I could always shave my unruly split-strands but then there would be more medulla in the margarine than the already obligatory toasty crumbs I preserve there. I’ve never waxed-on poetically but the next time I celebrate my hatch-day, I’ll enlighten my downy dome by burying it between two score and eleven lighted candlesticks. Of course if that doesn’t work there is always plucking, but then again I don’t know about you but even if the sky isn’t falling, I already know that I’m a little CHICKEN!
Hmmm... I might just be missing the boat by resisting this hairy opportunity before me? Hey I’m TUFT, maybe it really is my time to join the bush league and start teasin’ the weaves with a higher goal? Yes, it might be better to shake n’ bake in the sun to tan my tawny hide so I can sell my pigtailed pelt or at least flip a wig. Oh well no worries, since all this fiber is apparently growing on me, I’ll just let nature take its course and tame my tresses the same way old dogs do - by shamelessly shedding all over the place and rolling in the fresh cut DOOey grass.
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