Our baby brother was born a tuft of down nestled between his knotted legs, prompting the nurse to council our mother that he might, in fact, have two assholes.

When my baby sister was born her hair was silken and black, like our Grandpa Lemons’ had been before his chemotherapy, while my hair, we’re told, was nearly white. Today our hair is the same dirty blonde, which I take as a sign of my preeminence over my sister.

Hair is the battleground at which we meet our animal nature, hewing back its creeping waves with spinning blades and chemical weapons. What hair we choose to leave on our bodies is as significant as what we choose to snip off; a few inches here or there can signify the boundary between fronting hipster, civilized breadwinner, or marrow-sucking cave dweller—especially if those inches are on the shoulders, like a cape.

This week Dethroner will cut through this forest of cuticles, catching the occasional burst of sebaceous gland to the face, to explore a terrain that’s always in bloom: our hair.

Image courtesy of Stoneth.