Dude, don’t you know that size—or in this case, length—doesn’t matter?
When I see someone sporting a tired, scraggly ponytail, I have to muster every bit of self-control not to whip out some scissors and cut off that last stand of I don’t know what. More frayed than a jute rope and with more split ends than Courtney Love 11 days into a psychotic break, I don’t get the point. Mullets at least have that “business in the front, party in the back” thing going on (but believe me, they are punchworthy too, which just goes to show how far down on the follicular food chain these limp locks are). What can you say about a man with a mangy ponyfail? Hippie in the front, dying hippie in the back? Often, the ponytail accompanies a balding pate, which, guess what?, isn’t fooling anyone. No amount of length on your last 134 strands will compensate for the loss of hair everywhere else on your dome.
Trust me, trust anyone other than your misguided, insecure sense of style and chop that napeworm off. You will look hip, not hippie, as though you exist on this side of the Millennium. And if you don’t tame the beast, I might not be so kind next time I happen upon you.