Hello, ab machine. Hello, long-dormant abs.

Hello, dawning realization that I do indeed have a weird haircut.

I think I might have just gotten a weird haircut

But hey—the moon sure is bright tonight.

So what's this stuff in my hair?

What total dumbass would absent-mindedly rub hair pomade not in his hair but all over the Frankenstein scar from his summer mole excision in the morning and leave his wound covered in a thin sheen of goo that won’t wash off all day? (Though it leaves his wrist hair delightfully shiny and manageable.)

Donald Trump?

No. But that’s a highly plausible, highly informed guess. Five points for you!

It is actually I, your surgery-scarred, shiny-wrist-haired, correct-pronoun-using protagonist. And “protagonist” is an Old Norwegian (as in Jake, the Old Norwegian) word for “dumbass.”

Shhhhh! I'm catching guys ...

FACT: My 1890s-gentleman-with-an-excruciatingly-precise-side-part hair is still totally on point two hours after the show.

FACT: My fireworks-and-sailboats shirt is objectively sexy and makes me factually catnip to the ladies.

POSSIBLY: And the dudes.

FACT: I’m watching a National Geographic documentary on the recovery of the Costa Concordia.

FACT: Every diver and salvage engineer in the entire Mediterranean is HAWT.

FACT: That’s Mediterranean for HOT.

FACT: If they could only see me through my TV they could see how irresistibly catnippy my on-point hair and fireworks-and-sailboats shirt are.

FACT: The combination is romantically lethal.

FACT: The documentary is really quite fascinating.

FACT: So I’m too busy to date all those hot Mediterraneans.

THEREFORE: Sorry, fellas. Now shhhhhh!

SURE THING!

This shirt seemed like a versatile, suitable-for-all-occasions chemise when I found it for $5 on an Old Navy tumble table way back when Old Navy was relevant and people actually said “tumble table.”

Now I find it slightly problematic for places like work and public locations in general ... so instead I’m wearing it backstage at a wholesome musical cast with legions of corruptible kids who see me as a plausible role model.

But, hey: FIVE DOLLARS

Also: Don’t judge my floofy, savagely untamed hair here; I was freshly showered and rolling my leg injuries as I took this selfie and I hadn’t yet styled my coiffure for our wholesome musical cast with legions of corruptible kids who see me as a plausible role model. SO DON’T BLAME ME WHEN THEY GROW UP TO BE DAMN COMMIE SOCIALIST HIPPIES.

Also: FIVE DOLLARS

Good night!

Monday errands

1. When I make a friendly, chatty Jake JokeTM to you, Mr. Menards Return Desk Guy, in the course of our business transaction, it is customary that you actually NOT look at me as though I had just punched my arm down your throat, grabbed your vestigial tail and yanked you inside out. The Bare Minimum Of Customer Service Handbook CLEARLY AND UNAMBIGUOUSLY STATES that you owe me a wan smile of acknowledgement.

2. Dear extremely handsome guy behind the Menards paint counter: In your obstinate refusal to make eye contact with ANY customers, you missed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have me ask you to show me your caulk.

3. I got a haircut that is both au courant and Hello, Dolly! period-appropriate.

4. If you’re missing your pastel ear plugs, they’re by the cart return in the west-side Menards parking lot.

Thank you, five! Even though we’re all TENS.

Goodnight, Jakey

When you turn down two invitations to post-performance get-togethers because you’re exhausted and in dire need to sleep but you grab an ice-cold sparkling water when you get home and turn on your Roku YouTube channel just to unwind for a few minutes and then you get sucked into a vortex of Vox education videos and Dancing Through My Broadway Résumé profiles and now it’s freaking 4:00 am and WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH MY SENSE OF GOOD JUDGEMENT but through it all your show hair has stayed faithfully on point.

One of us just cut his own hair with a sewing scissors. The other one is too girthy to button his fancy velvet-lapeled vest.

Tech rehearsal is literally bursting with exhaustive joy.

Hello, Tech Rehearsal!

Meriwether—my severely parted old-timey coiffure is named Meriwether—and I have on our Sunday clothes and we’re ready for our 12-hour Hello, Dolly! tech rehearsal. But it’s the last gasping hours of the Victorian Era and even though the Second Industrial Revolution is in full swing, WHAT IN ALL UNHOLY TARNATION IS THIS RECTANGULAR CONTRAPTION IN MY HANDS?

Also: Mega Plaid Tweed will one day make a most excellent band name once “punk” is invented. And “bands.”

Also: Yes, there is a purportedly heterosexual Jake growing out of my shoulder. He will be surgically excised at the tonsorial parlor forthwith.

The Hubble Telescope called. It wants its lenses back.

The bitch is badass in his new haircut

1. My haircut guy had me try a side part and I really like it.

2. I love Miles Davis and I love you, KCCK, but “Bitches Brew” is a horrible soundtrack for trying to take a decent hair selfie in my car. And OK, I’ll just say it: “Bitches Brew” is icky and I really never need to hear it again.

When your hair is so on point that you need to drop everything and take a selfie

It’s just on the warm side of perfect running weather, my hair looks AH. MAY. ZING., I have a new(ish) pair of Hoka One Ones I’ve been wanting to run in, I feel confident that I can work up a sweat on my wrist without needing to have it wrapped so I can finally wear my running watch again, and I actually feel like running so I’d better go out and do it right the hell now before I back down so there’s no time to call Rob and Scott to join me.

I’ll see you all in 3 miles and 2 waist sizes!

The N is for Nice Hair

And Nowledge.

You will be found

There’s only one thing more certain than me taking a selfie when I’m at the gym: me forgetting where I parked my car when I leave the gym. In my defense, EVERYONE at the gym today came in a silver car.

Also: new haircut!

Also: Disney running shirt!

Also: I finally found my car!

When you wake up at 6:00 for no useful reason on a Saturday

and you see that it’s relatively nice out and your hair doesn’t look too ridiculous for a potential commemorative selfie so you decide to go for a run so you’ll slim down enough to fit into your high school parachute pants again in time for today’s Pride Fest.

Things I Just Found In My Storage Unit:

My second “Who Am I Anyway?” headshot—still stalwartly mounted on its foam core—from my second A Chorus Line in 1996ish. Behold that perfect hang-ten wave of hair crashing over my forehead! Behold that rakish single earring! Behold that attempt at a world-aware smolder! Behold that long-abandoned 32-inch waist (not pictured)!

I have more Extra Strength Tylenol in me than is probably healthy for my kidneys and liver

and my lingering deep headache makes me afraid to lie down for fear the pain will recalibrate its spatial orientation and intensify all over again, but I survived my first visit with a hot shower and a bottle of shampoo and I managed to keep my hair on point with only a fraction of product on only a fraction of my not-throbbing scalp, so I’m still a big boy.

My family told me on no uncertain terms to NOT post these pictures, so challenge accepted!

The good news is I got our back deck and the grill and all the patio furniture (now christened Porch Song Trilogy) all scrubbed and cleaned and dried and set up for summer.

The bad news is the umbrella for the table didn’t get set up. It’s on a high shelf in the garage, see, so I set up our tall step stool in a place near one end of the umbrella. That place also happened to be directly under the surprisingly sharp and surprisingly hard end of the track for the garage door. Not noticing this troublesome placement, I bounded up the step stool at full force ... and hit my head so hard on the sharp, hard end of the track that I saw stars and all but collapsed to the floor where blood ran down my arm and the pain intensified so quickly that I actually started gasping and sobbing.

My poor dad—who is legally blind—ran to get our poor neighbor—who had to look at my bloody, swollen head without barfing—and together they decided to take me to the ER:

The other good news is I don’t need stitches, but I have an impressive lump and a possible concussion and a badass punk-rocker streak of blood in my hair:

The other bad news, though, is the stupid, mean, dumbass doctor won’t let me go to the gym for arm day. So I apologize in advance if you see me today with my lumpy red head and my saggy, deflated arms.

The other freaking awesome news is our freaking awesome neighbor climbed (carefully) up the (newly placed) step stool to get our umbrella down, and it was waiting next to the driveway for us when we got home.