But it had been five years since I had bundled west to work a summer job, and I had obviously forgotten a few things about the Land of 10,000 Lakes. I was reminded of one of those things about 20 minutes after crossing the state line, when my head exploded:

Allergies.

I am allergic to everything in Minnesota: grass, plants, trees, animals, work -- you name it, and it'll probably leave me red-eyed and spinning in sneezing fits like some wildly drawn cartoon character.

Except -- unlike a cartoon character -- my mucus is real. Which leads me to something that's really been annoying me lately: tissue boxes.

I'm not the only bloke with allergies, ya know. I have plenty of friends with allergies -- some worse than mine. Occasionally, men without allergies will get the sniffles, too.

So why is it that all tissue boxes are made to be so effeminate?

Every single box of tissue that I see has flowers or unicorns or ballerinas or ballerinas holding flowers while riding a unicorn; all in soft pink or baby blue or those other colors that men can't name.

Why aren't there any manly tissue boxes? Or neutral, solid-colored tissue boxes? I would even settle for a series of boxes that depict historical battles: the Siege of Troy, the Battle of Hastings, Appomattox.

So I was already feeling a little sensitive about the whole manliness issue -- dabbing my swollen proboscis with a pink tissue -- when my friend, Kristin, made it worse.

Sitting behind me in the car, Kristin said: "From behind, I wouldn't expect you to have such a deep voice."

She was making a comment about my long hair.

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Now, keep in mind that I can often be seen wearing a kilt. It takes a special kind of bloke to carry on the pink-tissue-toting, kilt-wearing, long-haired look. And I am not that bloke.

Even before Kristin's ridicule, I had grown weary of long hair. It's hot, it gets in your eyes and mouth when you sleep, it takes too long to dry after showering, and you shed like a dog with mange. My hair was everywhere -- my clothes, my bed, my backpack, my books, my desk at work, my pickup, even my favorite pub.

Y'know how those guys on CSI always find that one hair that helps them track down the killer? A blind, crack-addled monkey wearing mittens could have collected my hair samples.

"I think I'll get a haircut," I told my wife.

"OK," she said, grabbing her car keys.

She won't admit it, but I think she was ready to lose her long-haired lover. And, looking back at pictures taken last month of the two of us, I guess I can't blame her. My look wasn't so much "Fabio" as much as it was "crazy drunken homeless guy."

It had taken me 1.5 years to grow my hair to a length of just over 10 inches. It would take scissor-wielding beauty master Norma less than 10 minutes to undo it all.

As Norma started hacking away at the mess on my head, a mother and daughter walked into the salon and reminded me of another reason why I needed a haircut.

"Oh my gosh, I wish I had your hair," they said.

Apparently my thick, curly locks were the envy of all the ladies. But guys don't want physical attributes that women are jealous of. Commenting on how lovely my hair is, to me, was like having a woman say: "Oh my gosh, I wish my hands were as soft and delicate as yours," or, "I wish I had your slender arms."

BETTER THAN NASCAR Watch Chris Cope Shed 1.5 Years' Hair Growth

Obviously I just didn't appreciate my locks as much as I should have -- hopefully, they will go to someone who can. Thanks to Norma, I was able to donate my hair to Locks of Love, an organization that provides hairpieces to kids who suffer from long-term medical hair loss.

Plus, by donating my hair, I was able to score a free haircut. That's like getting free beer when you're thirsty!

Apparently, watching a guy get his haircut is really fascinating, because Norma and I were able to draw a small crowd. I should have charged admission, had beer sellers, and pawned little hair-themed gifts. With the right marketing, it could have been bigger than NASCAR (it was certainly more exciting).

My wife did take pictures, though. Simply click here to behold the magic, the mystery, the breathtaking thrill that is a good ol' fashioned haircut.

As you can see from the pictures, I cut off quite a bit, leaving me a little more comfortable with the idea of blowing my nose with pretty tissues.

Perhaps it would be more manly to use my kilt.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.