Meditate on the Way of the Hair, for a moment. The Hair toils not, neither does it spin. It is placid even in the face of the wind. Although it may be tormented with sprays and gels and mousses and juices, it abides. The Hair does not fight, it does not surrender. If you cut it, it remains. If you burn out its home with electrolysis, it returns in double measure in the hereafter. It is always the silent victor, but it never boasts.
You must be at one with the Hair, for the Hair will surely conquer, and is it not better to be exalted with the glorious Hair than to be cast down and trodden upon? Flatten your mind, tune your senses, unfold your personality until the whispering Hair's tiny voice is like a deafening blast of command. Relax until your muscles burst. Do not fear: your Hair will guide you.
The Hair will show you great mysteries. You will understand the mystic structures embedded in the town hall in the village of Hairy Corners, and you will know why you must, in the end, go there. But not now. The Hair has other plans for you. Straighten up, look sharp, you've got an interview with destiny. You're the perfect man for the job of a lifetime, and ooh, look at that Hair. Who's your stylist? You're hired.
Now try to be inconspicuous until your next set of orders come.