You're just jealous that the Tracies still have hair.
Jealous? JEALOUS?! Of the Tracy's hair?!
Oh yes, I weep into my silk pillow every night that I too cannot emulate an early 2000s boyband.
Alas, I simply cannot spend an absurd amount of my dead father's fortune on industrial-grade hair gel just to keep every follicle perfectly in place while I strut around pretending to be the second coming of Jeff Tracy and lecture the world like I’m its glorified mall cop.
Or better yet - pretend I’m not an heir to the world’s largest fortune, but instead some floppy-haired “surf bum” from the least academically competent stretch of California, grinning like I haven’t got a single functioning neuron in my golden little head.
And let us not forget the space elf - yes, that one - who seems to defy gravity, physics, and common sense with whatever eldritch product he uses to levitate his hair in orbit and commune with the satellites.
All of this to say, I am unequivocally not jealous of a single strand of Tracy DNA containing hair.
You think I lost my hair? No, I ascended. I transcended the frivolous tyranny of shampoo and vanity. My scalp is a solar panel for raw, unfiltered psychic chaos.
Do you see Jeff Tracy with a bare dome? No - because he’s still clinging to the illusion of control. I embraced it. I became it. I don’t need mousse, I need minions.
I don’t style hair - I style destruction.