I must never get my hair cut this short ever again. I run my fingers through the back and I feel the shingle and I am instantly turned into Liza Minelli. Just this afternoon I found myself squatting on my office chair, making odd pelvic thrusts, while I quietly sang:

You have to understand the way I am, Mein Herr.
A tiger is a tiger, not a lamb, Mein Herr.
You’ll never turn the vinegar to jam, Mein Herr.
So I do… What I do…
When I’m through… Then I’m through…
And I’m through… Toodle-oo!

Not good. Not at all.

Bye-bye, mein Lieber Herr,
Auf wiedersehen, mein Herr.
Es war sehr gut, mein Herr
Und vorbei.
Du kennst mich wohl, mein Herr,
Ach, lebe wohl, mein Herr.
Du sollst mich nicht mehr sehen,
Mein Herr.