Catastrophise

Strategising,
Surgically sniping away seven of his artificial sacrificial hair,
(All with a sociopath's bloodless precision),
He then teases them crosswire across the plughole
like some kind of ass-backwards gonzo csi:
In his eyes
the obvious and only realistic resolution to deflecting
her nascent biscuit-time suspicions that
his drip-dry locks might not be
entirely
The Real Deal.

Women's radar being so terribly and eerily atuned to picking up
on such sartorial man-shit,
(And he detected those vibes begin their baby shimmy):
I must head-butt that mischievous genie back into its can of worms.
So hair around the plughole must mean real man hair, right?
Yes! emphatically yes!
What a ploy!
Planting hair around the plughole:
A method-directing even Scorcesse would envy.
No woman, no matter how calculating,
Could possibly ever guess,
A man can be this clever -
or demented.
No, she'll never guess her embryonic Zeus is a bit nyloned..

Thus she will marry him,
Then shall prang him children..

And whilst engaged in their throat-music of glottal passion,
As he lifts her body ceiling-spiderwebwards,
As she floats up akimbo under his breathless fleshly phosphorescent blancmange -
As an added safety net -
He shall plant the woolly bobble hat firmly on his static bonce:
The ultimate catastrophising precaution
against her tearing off of his glue-on ponzi tresses;
For this love must not Enron.
And thus she can claw at him in brain salad banshee ecstacy,
And his secret will be safe,
And she'll excuse the bobble hat,
Pretending to be a fan of Badly Drawn Boy.

Catastophise,
Then carry on.
This is the twenty-first century:
Risk assessment and due diligence -
Then and only then -
Get it on.