So I was wondering what kind of hair cut would help prevent ....

[Haole Girl]

.."helmet hair" when I ran across this blog:
:rofl:

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/LAC.20060222.BLOG22/TPStory/Travel

LEARNING TO LIVE WITH HELMET HAIR
MICHÈLE LEBLANC

Special to The Globe and Mail

February 22, 2006

ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. -- Scattered on black leather sofas or milling about the service department, customers while away the time as they wait for their motorcycles at Chick's Harley-Davidson in Albuquerque, N.M.

A scruffy middle-aged biker strides in, a stunning young blonde in tow, and heads for the vending machine. He feeds it a handful of coins and presses the Coke button.

Nothing.

He grunts, toggles the coin-return lever and tries again. Still nothing. He kicks the machine -- all eyes are on him now -- and storms back out empty-handed, leaving the woman behind. The back of his T-shirt says: "If you can read this, the bitch fell off."

"Real nice," I mutter. My husband removes his reading glasses and gives me his "live-and-let-live" look. We're the only fiftysomethings here.

I lean over. "What do you think she sees in him?" I ask softly.

"Maybe he has a big bike," he whispers in my ear, and buries his sly grin between the pages of Easy Riders magazine.

Across the room, the young thing has sunk into a couch and is staring a hole in her boots. I absurdly reflect on how unfair it is that her hair remains perfectly coiffed after being enclosed inside a helmet, when I have to resign my vain self to looking less than my best on our motorcycle trips.

Another customer silently struggles with the vending machine, which is still bent on keeping all the soft drinks in its cool belly. The young woman and I both watch with interest. Then our eyes meet.

"How long you guys been waitin'?" she calls out to me. As she leans forward, her skimpy tank top shifts to reveal an intricate tattoo just above her right breast. I sense that my husband's attention is no longer on his magazine.

"Going on two hours," I reply, crossing the room to sit with her.

"Well, that ain't right! What's the problem?" Her deep blue eyes are filled with friendly concern.

"A mix-up with our booking," I explain. "Something about a missing . . . shifter linkage . . . on our Electra Glide. And too much baggage for a smaller bike. They're fixing it now."

"Oh. You guys from here?"

"No, Canada."

"Cold up there ain't it? Where you headed?"

"North. Santa Fe, Taos, that way."

"Nice ridin' up there!" she says. "You guys ride much up in Canada?"

"I haven't logged any significant miles," I say, "but my husband has. You?"

"All the time," she beams, while her fingers adjust the red, white and blue bandana that holds her perfectly tousled golden hair.

"Can I ask you something, woman to woman?"

She flashes a perfect smile. "What?"

"Well, as I said, I'm kind of new to this, and I couldn't help but notice how good your hair looks. How do you manage to avoid helmet hair?"

"Oh!" Her hand returns to her locks. "Simple: don't wear one."

"Excuse me?"

"You're over 18, aren't you honey? Well you don't have to wear a helmet in New Mexico, long as you're 18."

"Isn't that a bit reckless?" I ask.

"Think about it, hon: You're goin' a hundred and twenty and you fall, you're gonna die, helmet or no helmet."

Across the room, the rentals manager is handing my husband the keys to our ride. Well, we're definitely not "goin' a hundred and twenty," but I don't tell her that. After all, what's the big deal about helmet hair?

"Thanks," I say as I rise from the couch. "I'll think about it."