Exhibit 1.2.5

On Haircuts

(This is me gearing up to try to write some nonfiction someday. Well, not really. I just don't know what else to post about and this is what's been on my mind for the last few months. This and thoughts on the NFL draft. Those I'll keep to myself lest the Bengals find out about them).

I hate getting my hair cut. You might have noticed. This might be why you hate me. There are plenty of reasons and this is as good as any other. And you probably like getting your haircut. That's fine. You're wrong.

And I think I don't like haircuts because I wait so long to get one that it turns into a frightening reimagining of my head. There's something really embarrassing about walking out of a salon looking like a different person. It feels showy. I'd gone in enjoying my slow tide of hair waves and it was only when they led to a great embarrassment than the haircut itself that I had to break down. Every time I leave the salon thinking that, this time, I'll be back in a month and it won't be a big deal. Then somehow we'll have come around to the same season, and I won't think anything is wrong with maybe having to wear a headband while playing basketball.

I wasn't always like this. I loved the guy who cut my hair in Lincoln (Clint!) but that's because I knew him and could talk music in the chair. In Houston, though, I've completely fallen apart. I need to do something about this. I'm not above getting married just so somebody is there to remind me to schedule an appointment. I'll do it. You watch me.

Actually, just watch my head and I'll watch yours. It will be the opposite of hate and I don't care if the Bengals find out.