There’s not a lot you can do if the dog digs up some ancient prayer book and then chews it in a way the invites the kind of curse that makes him grow human hair.  Keep an eye on it and offer only basic maintenance: Shampoo, conditioner.  Maybe some pomade if you’re going out.  But no need to break the bank with expensive haircuts and styling techniques to match the season’s hottest looks because remember: Chewing up the ancient prayer book was BAD.  And the dog needs to know that.  Bad dog! 

If you’re not doing anything, why not get a degree as a stylist?  Open up a shop, build a respectable list of clients and then one day, you do that thing where you purposely struggle to even out someone’s sideburns.  You trim one side, then the other.  You frown.  You squint your eyes. 

“Hmmm…”

Then you trim again: back and forth, higher and higher until the two sides meet at the top of the customer’s head, creating the classic “headband of baldness” effect.

He’s livid, of course, but you calmly explain that the haircut was done as a strange joke inspired by a recent lottery win.  You go on to say that you’re a millionaire and that you’d like to give him a few thousand dollars for being a good sport about the bad haircut.

“Well, okay.”

You pay him and as soon as he leaves, your stomach sinks because you didn’t win the lottery.  It was a lie and the stupid check you wrote him will surely bounce.  After trying and failing to win last minute on a handful of scratch off lottery tickets you decide it’s that magical time to fake your own death.

The car lights on fire pretty easily, but the whole thing heats up faster than you expect.  Within seconds, it becomes impossible to manually push the flaming car into a ravine.  Plus, you left it in park.  In a panicked, Plan B you heave your body against a tree until you lose consciousness.  A hiker finds you the next day.

“Ugh!  I was in a car accident and I hit a tree!”

“But the windshield isn’t broken.”

“I must’ve rolled out the door sideways and then rolled forward!  Ugh!  I don’t remember anything!”

“Something’s not right,” says the hiker. 

And so you try to kill the hiker by chewing through his ankle, but your teeth struggle to break through the fabric of his jeans, which provides him ample time to hammer you in the head with his aluminum water bottle.

At your funeral, your family comments on how nice it was for the mortician to use a skin-colored spray-paint to cover up the piece of loose denim trapped in your frozen jaws.