I’m in prison. Sure, it’s minimum security, has no rules or restrictions, and is made of my own hair, but it’s still prison! That’s right: I’m in bad haircut prison. Now, for those of you currently thinking I’m making a mountain out of a mole hair, and that I should just go get it fixed, there’s something I need to tell you. But before I tell you, will you promise that you won’t make fun of me? It’s a deeply personal issue that I have been struggling with for months, and I’m only now beginning to gather the strength to talk about it. Here goes. I have… BaBy-D. Shocked? Well, how do you think I felt when I first found out? No I did not feel hungry! How could you be so insensitive? I mean, OK, yes, I did feel a little bit hungry, but I also felt scared! And confused! What’s that? You don’t know what BaBy-D is? Oh. Well, basically, it’s a disorder that prevents you from getting anything done, on account of you having a baby. It affects millions of new parents worldwide, and, sadly, there is no cure. Sure, you learn to live with it, but it’s an adjustment. For example, last night I ate my dinner in four parts, like a Showtime mini-series. And it’s taking me so long to get through Memoirs of a Geisha that I’m starting to feel like I’m reading Chiyo’s life story in real-time. As for haircuts, the only thing I seem to have time for is walking-in to a salon and paying the jumpy trainee who sweeps up the hair to trim my mop with child-proofed craft scissors. I think I’ll be an eight-year-old boy for Halloween.