Birds

In an age where society teeters on the brink of existential collapse, one issue has united men across nations, classes, and tax brackets: the preservation of their goddamn hairline.

Forget the environment. Forget healthcare. For some, nothing—and I mean nothing—comes before the nourishment, worship, and complete institutional care of their scalp.

You know how some people treat their hair as if it were royalty? Like each follicle has a passport, a private chef, and a legacy trust fund? These people aren’t just into hair. No. They’re in a committed polyamorous relationship with their scalp. They’re massaging their roots with oils pressed between the thighs of Himalayan yogis and yoginis. They’re feeding their split ends with positive affirmations. And if—God forbid—a single strand dares fall out? It’s a candlelight vigil and a GoFundMe for the grieving roots.

Haircare is more critical than childcare. That’s not a hyperbole—that’s a budget line item. Meet Bahadur. Bahadur’s son hasn’t been to school in three semesters, but you know what’s getting daily multivitamins, biotin smoothies, and a consultation with a Swiss trichologist? That’s right—Bahadur’s crown. His thinning but emotionally supportive crown. Ask him why he made the sacrifice, and he’ll say: “Education is essential, yes. But a strong hairline is eternal. It’s plumage. It’s legacy. It’s heritage. It’s the crown jewel. It’s the societal cornerstone.”

At a macro scale, every year, as if guided by some ancient follicular instinct, they take flight. Flocks of men from all corners of the world begin their solemn migration to the promised land: Byzantium. Not for food. Not for precipitously changing weather conditions. Not for survival. But for follicular rebirth. This perennial migratory event brings men together in such numbers and density that crusted dots, scabbing lines, and baseball caps can be spotted from above, by a hovering satellite.

But as long as those follicles flourish, all is forgiven.