Broccoli is that dude/female dude that shows up one day with an alien abduction haircut, a shear and gel follicle sculpture spray painted deep shades of decidedly non-hair spectrum colors, twisting and twirling designs clipped, trimmed, and burnt into the grass surrounding the cranial vault. You know the type of haircut I’m talking about. The type of haircut that gets grandpa hot and bothered, boiling to the point where he whistles gentle racist whispers to himself about the Vietcong. The type of haircut Dennis Rodman births in his wet dreams, dreadlocked delusions escaping the nocturnal world, driving wildly through reality in a tie-dyed minivan on a road of acid gummy bears. The type of haircut that latches into your mind, a parasitic eraser, wiping clean your ability to think of anything else.
You kind of hate it the first time you see it. You murmur “douchebag” to yourself. You laugh. But deep down, deep down you wish you have the small-intestinal fortitude to actually brand your skull that way. Shh, no, no. It’s okay. I’m that way, too. We’re all that way, the large majority of us. We’re not the chosen ones. We’re not the flowering broccoli heads of the world. We’re the practical people. We’re the rational. The sane. The ones who’d keep their hallucinatory hairs in the imagination cloud storage where they belong.
Oh sure, we can veer from our lanes you and I. I did once. And I missed the mark. I had a barber carve a Nike swoosh into the back of my head as a child, a furry homage to Michael Jordan and my love of commercialized factory fabrications. Yes, I branded myself with a brand in a vapid, desperate attempt at artistic stylization. You know what that resulted in? Nothing. Because hollow, imitated art isn’t art at all. It’s a forgery. It’s inorganic. It’s not befitting of Broccoli.
So Broccoli, you know what, keep doing your thing. Keep spraying your artistic insanity across the world, bathing the lot of us normal folk in your hairy holy water. Keep living your life with lusting locks. Keep doing you. Because that’s the Broccoli way. Someday, I hope I can say it’s the Ben way, too.