Yes, that's a mohawk. Not a faux-hawk, like some of you believe. The real deal. The point is moot, however, because I cut it off yesterday morning. Reports on my reasoning for cutting it off vary from me being whipped to me being whipped (Anna hates mohawks, it turns out). But I maintain that it was actually my intention all along to simply shave my head, and the mohawk was just a little fun for Grand Ole Days. For those of you who don't live in the twin cities, that's like the county fair, except on the main shopping drag in St. Paul. The city's sweaty, overweight, pale, recently wintered hordes go out into the street to eat things like deep-fried pickles, deep-fried oreos, and deep-fried snickers bars, in addition to drinking beer and listening to bands. It's a hoot. So long story short, even though I had the mohawk for only a day, more people saw me sporting it than will see my shaved head in the next month.