If you stalk my photostream, you've probably already gleaned from recent photos that my brother is a big hilarious idiot. Let me give you some background about his hair (and my history with it, why not).
When Hob was 3 or so (around the time I ignorantly accused him of faggotry), he fell off my bunk bed and landed temple-side-down on a wooden doll bed used for Strawberry Shortcake. Naturally this action split his head open and, ever-cool, I clapped my hand to the side of his bleeding head and yelled "Hobby fell." He got some stitches and a really cool crescent moon-shaped scar that kids later assumed he'd shaved into his hairdo on purpose. When he was in high school (and I was home from college), I took clippers to his head and shaved it in the backyard. In recent years, he's had a bout with stress-related hair loss (i.e. chunks falling out). That seems to have passed.
Despite the fact that he generally keeps his facial hair in check, he is not so big on the loaf-grooming, unless it has entertainment value. So several months ago he not only decided to let his hair grow, but he also permed it. We are a straight-haired people, and the perm only took well enough to give him some wave and body--not enough to yield the jew-fro he was probably envisioning.
Cut to the present, and Hob is rocking a flowing BeeGees kind of do, minus the luxuriance of the Gibb manes. In reflecting upon how we might make him look grosser--mullets always being the no-brainer here--I volunteered that I could probably give him a cornrow mullet. I pretty much thought this would be one of those hilarious no-plans that is never executed, because that's kind of how I roll. However, Hob kicked it into gear and that is how I found myself in Sally Beauty Supply buying a few wads of fake hair and a million tiny rubber bands.
The slide show below reveals the fruit of my unskilled labor. Braids, weave, greasy whiteboy and all. I suggested that upon his return to his bartending post in Pittsburgh, he could say that he'd been drafted by the NBA.
Created with Paul's flickrSLiDR.
Also, he decided to go sort of mainstream country in his musical pursuits. The result is songs that get requested at country bars. (Note please his mutton chops in these photos.) And also he and his bandmate are opening for Merle Haggard in Pittsburgh. That's an arrival of some kind, my friends.
And N.B., tall dudes with bubble asses having a hard time finding jeans: when in doubt, say G-Unit! This should have been obvious from the get-go.