Spring has arrived! In the bright fresh sunlight now you can’t hide the unsightly mess that your body has become over the winter. Covered in hair, fat and a glistening sheen of layered sweat and shame, what used to be a glorious temple to human physique has decayed into a shattered, bloated ruin that stands testament to the corrosive powers of those twin gods, Doritos and Netflix. ‘Tis the season for everyone to slowly, tenderly peel off layers of sweaters and turtlenecks, vomit, then sprint to the ARC in sweatpants and a hoodie. But in the mad panic that spring always provokes, something has been lost, something far subtler than huge biceps, and even more crucial than a rock hard wall of six-pack abs: the man bun. No longer will those magnificent tufts of hair stand erect off of the back of many a bro’s head. No longer will these peacock displays of sexual potency stand out amongst a crowd of bland, flat hair.
This editorial will stand as a monument to the fleeting life of that great trend. For during the great winter of 2015 it was said they retreated into hoodies and toques. Long they lingered in the warmth, too frail to face the bitter cold, so long so that when the light returned the age of man bun had ended. Some say they retreated into the scalps of their owners, content to return again some day when the time is right. Some say that they were butchered in their hidey holes, by vagrant barber(ian)s who hunted them by the cold gleam of night, searching only with the gleam of their iron razors, heralded only by their chilling battle cry “Fresh Cuts!” In those deeps, however, there are no answers, only tragedy.
In the power vacuum that remained in the first days of springs, rival hairstyles have desperately fought for dominance of the Queen’s hairscape. Men’s pigtails made one valiant stand on the back (of the head of) one Dwight Eisenbauer, Arts ‘19, but alas, burned too bright and was cut down (literally) by local hair stylist Raoul, cutting a bloody (again literally, Raoul got a little careless with the clippers) swathe through his hair, leaving only the haircut where all hairstyles go to die: the buzz cut. Immediately a play was made for the crown of men, (again, not for the last time, literally) by the frosted tip perm, trail blazed by Dugald MacGruber, Comm ‘83, but alack it never caught on because no one likes that guy.
This battle will rage on, until one cut emerges victorious, probably in late May or June, but the world will never know the glory that was the man bun. For it has faded from the annals of men’s hairstyle, whether it is to return, few know. But amidst the carnage, some faithful still dream of brighter, more peaceful days. They are the few, the proud, they sing hymns night and day in eager anticipation of the man buns return to its proud position as elite amongst the hair. They have elaborate religious ceremonies involving feces, urine and hair gel.
The first step of the ceremony is that the devoted smear each other in hair gel and bake said feces into a man loaf. Then a chief acolyte breaks the man loaf into tiny man bun shaped pieces and ritually consume the baked shit. They then poop out that excrement and construct a monument to the almighty man bun. They shape it with their hands and bodies in order to become more in tune with the manbun. The last and final step to this rain dance is that the beloved strip off their clothes, ascend the monument and have an orgy atop the poop built, poop sourced, poop idolizing monument, destroying it in a valiant attempt to spread e. coli. Then the real fun starts when they break out the knives…
Do you know what. I’m not finishing this story. The world doesn’t need to know. So I’d like to segue into a greeting. Hi, I’m Sam Codrington, incoming editor for Golden Words, that last paragraph got a little hairy so I decided to cut it off and hope that it doesn’t grow back, like real hair would. See that. That’s a pun. The piece got hairy, meaning that it was gross and should not continue, but also hairy like hair, something that would grow back. It’s funny because I’m defying audience expectations by using the second meaning of the word, where you would expect the first. Aren’t jokes so much funnier when you break them down? HAHAHA. I just made myself laugh. God I’m hilarious.
Anyways, R.I.P. Man Buns, ‘Til Next Week 🙂