The hair of it all.
There’s a wonderful thing that happens when people have no shame about ignoring timely style trends. While fashion and style nets a long series of similar cuts and styles that fill the world with common beauty, ignoring the such fills the world with something so much more valuable: ugly beauty.
And this isn’t ugly that’s hard to look at, mind you. There are two kinds of ugly. The first is ugly caused by being unkempt and lazy and having low self-esteem or simply not giving a shit. The second is a beautiful ugly, a look eschewed by the mainstream but adored by the incessantly weird and accepting. It’s the kind of ugly you see on a guy with a full beard and tank top who wears daisy dukes and strappy high heels to Walmart. You may laugh and think it strange and offputting, but in my head, I hear Carla from the pilot episode of Scrubs firmly stating “I happen to think it makes my ass look good.” I love that guy. He’s got more balls than most of us.
And undoubtedly, it is the kind of look on Blake Anderson, who has this amazing lion’s mane of tightly crimped curls and a short little porn ‘stache, that would have him ignored by any media outlet looking for studlies. I don’t know why, either. Have you seen this dude? He looks like Dave Mustaine on happy pills, and he’s built like snow man made out of styrofoam spheres and beef skewers.
Alright, maybe not, but you still totally would.
The fact is, that wild bushy stoner doesn’t really care about whether you like his hair. On Workaholics, the show that landed Blake (and fellow DIY comedy geniuses Adam Devine, Anders Holm, and Kyle Newachek) the hair has already been explained as an uncuttable, unshavable God; a living artifact of some divinity that Blake absolutely refuses to part with. Good.
If you’re not watching Workaholics, you should. Firstly, three out of the four members of Mail Order Comedy (Blake, Adam, and Kyle) have gifted their presence to Community (Blake and Adam as guests, Kyle as returning director). Secondly, though the show revolves heavily around the adventures of drinkers and drug users in a post Beavis and Butthead California, it doesn’t herald those activities so much that teetotals and straightedgers can’t “get” it. Thirdly, it takes a few episodes to understand the intelligence that goes into making characters that brilliantly childlike and endearingly dumb. Fourth, it creates its own language, something any amateur pop culture linguist (like myself) can appreciate wholly, and because Comedy Central frequently applies those new words and definitions in Workaholics’ advertising. It’s just all around weird fun. There aren’t many television shows that can get me to celebrate half Christmas, or show me what it is like to trip on acid.
I’ve been exploring Blake Anderson’s beautiful pillows of golden frizz-locks for a long time now. Since I saw the pilot three seasons ago, I’ve searched long to find out whether that hair and that mustache were real, because they didn’t seem real. They seemed like facets of my imagination, veritable unicorns of follecular impossibility, and not because it was an actual grown mass but because they were allowed on television. I’ll say it: Blake Anderson’s hair is probably what drew the attention of most of Workaholics’ first television fanbase, because it almost cannot be real. It is the beautiful ugly only permitted on regular television for the sake of ridicule, but thank the lords of programming for Comedy Central, where certain simple rules may still be broken, and ugly beauty can reign.
Blake continues to be mega-boss, and Workaholics is coming out with fourth and fifth seasons of bonerriffic hijinks. All I can say is that I am thankful for his hair, that beautiful shiny pillow of stardust and nag champa, that will halo around him, and envelop you in love and happiness.