And the part shall forever separate the majority of my head from the minority, never be precisely straight, and culminate in a small cowlick, especially after trims.

And heretoforth, the part shall not return to the center of my skull for the dreaded "butt cut."

And as I hold my son(s) piggyback, they shall use my scalp for security, clenching fists of fuzz as I lean sideways or spin. 

And I will hopefully avoid any requirement for chemotherapy, as the fears associated with it would include coldness after losing so much God-given follicular insulation.

And shaving will occur thrice weekly, with the stipulation of once more should a special event be scheduled.

And prayers shall be lifted that my eyebrows will not decide to activate and necessitate trimming like those unfortunate souls with overactive forehead fur.

And pluck-grooming shall continue to be a self-activity, partaken of in private and unspoken in public.

And substantial finances reserved for conditioning products shall be used on valuable items instead, such as candy bars and gumball machine toys.

And dreadlocks or cornrows shall never originate atop my dome, for silliness is prevalent without overkill.

And this shall be the last StoryMash entry about my hair, unless someone else has developed an unhealthy obsession with it.  (As compared to those healthy obsessions.)