back to the future

Gus has begun flipping his hair.

Granted, it is getting quite long, but it's hardly long enough, in my opinion, to warrant this incessant flipping. The bangs are not obstructing his vision, and because of the way his hair was last cut (by a barber who was undeniably high), the flipping action does not incite a single hair to relocate. The result, therefore, is less "Justin Bieber" and more "Boy with an Odd Neurological Disorder", and it's maddening to watch.

He struts through the house in his skinny pants, the only pair he'll wear. On top, he dons a Ninja t-shirt that is two sizes too small. He wears Pumas on his feet. And, in the parlance of Tim Gunn, I must confess, he totally makes it work. But then. THE FLIP, FLIP, FLIP, FLIP. Like an eccentric billy goat, head butting some imagined foe in his peripheral vision.

"Gus, stop doing that thing with your head."
"It's what the cool guys do."
"But it doesn't look cool."
"Yes it DOES."
"It looks like something is wrong with you. Medically."
"<Hostile, exasperated groan> Mawwm. You don't even know what cool IS."

I don't even know what cool IS.

Pardon me, but what DeLoreanesque time machine did that accusation fly in on? My parental contract SPECIFICALLY STATES that I was to get AT LEAST five more years of adoration (or at least mild, grudging respect) before my coolness even came up for review.

I don't even know what cool is?

I don't even know what cool IS?

Who is HE? To tell ME? That I don't even know what cool is?

Like he's some kind of rock star or something.

Brother, please.