"Hell naw I won't cut my hurr."
~Murphy Lee

I'm half the man I used to be. Just a week ago, I was a long-haired stallion, a conquistador of love-envied by men and desired by women, but then the Man finally caught me…barber shears clutched in his dastardly mitts.

Initially, I resisted: There must be career options for dudes with curly, flowing locks as gorgeous as mine. Then I realized most of that crowd also drives Camaros, favors the handlebar mustache without the slightest hint of irony and sports a wardrobe financed exclusively by Camel Cash. No thanks, membership in the Mulletia isn't my bag, baby.

Fellow Billikens, Mom and Dad: I finally got a damned haircut.

Reactions from bros and babes alike has been overwhelmingly positive, but I remain skeptical. "Whoa, Big Daddy Butler," my endless legion of female fans says, "You look so much leaner, cleaner and just plain sexy with that new do!"

Even a few guys have echoed those sentiments, and I'm still unsure whether to be pleased or pissed by these proclamations. If the Jonaconda's sex appeal stock has risen even further from its already-blue-chip status, this can only be a good thing if my prospective employer is seeking a friendly, foxy face to carry the company to glorious new heights. Under this rosy light, the haircut seems a totally sweet move.

Historical precedence worries me, however. Throughout the ages, notable longhairs who lopped their locks for one reason or another have always suffered fates far worse than a cold neck during winter.

Samson, the Terminator of the Old Testament, buzzed his bangs to impress a strumpet named Delilah. Afterward, God was so angry that Samson's famous strength quickly deserted him. He got it back eventually, but he died in the process. The moral of the story is to never cut your hair to impress a chick-especially if she's a harlot of literally biblical proportions-because God doesn't like whipped guys.

Metallica, the…uh…Metallica of heavy metal, hacked their hair to impress a prostitute named the music industry. Afterward, the Devil was so angry that Metallica's famous face-melting metal sounds quickly deserted them. Time will tell, but all signs point to these living legends withering on a freshly-shorn vine of lassitude. The moral of the story is never to cut your hair to impress a generation of Limp Bizkit fans-because nobody, including God, likes Limp Bizkit anymore.

Although I lack the physical and musical fortitude to be punished for my transition to the "business buzz," I can't help but feel my pimpin' game is suffering. For the last year, my move (c'mon guys and gals, everyone's gotta have at least one jawdropper), was to stare deeply into the eyes of a lady, then toss my hair seductively and give her "the look."

Seeing that amber wave of finely coiffed manliness was enough to make a woman weak in the knees, but a recent re-enactment with my shorn locks led at least two Billiken babes to inquire if something was wrong with my neck. (How the mighty have fallen.)

What I really need is a full-fledged '70s revival. Not just the leisure suits, polyester pants and ringer tees-oh no. I demand a total return of shaggy haircuts, unkempt facial hair, John Travoltian "Saturday Night Fever" chest hair you could stuff a pillow with and Kiss-especially Kiss.

Back in those glory days, a man could hold a position of considerable prestige with a rockin' mustache and a shag do envied by even the ultimate modern-day frat lords. Lately, a guy has to shave his face (nevermind the other areas) a dozen times daily to avoid looking "unprofessional."

Somehow, metro hairstyles featuring such effete terms as highlights and lowlights are perfectly acceptable in the workplace-provided they don't hit the collars or the ears. After four years of longhair luxury, the rest of my life looks like a return to the rigid rules of my childhood Catholic school.

I'm clipped for now, but to paraphrase General Robert E. Lee: The Shag shall grow again.