Freud or Fraud?

After brunch today, during a walk through the Fourth Street shopping district of Berkeley, a friend (and I won't identify which friend for fear the prosecution will use it against me at the homicide trial) mentioned that I was in their dreams from the previous night. Experience has taught me that anytime anyone starts a sentence with "Hey, you were in my dreams last night", you should make for the hills immediately. Apparently, in this dream, I was walking down the aisle of my wedding and all was as it should be, except for one notable development, male pattern baldness. Say what? Yes, apparently, in my friend's (or now, more aptly, "friend"'s) dream, my previously plush luxuriant Kim Jong-il bouffant of hair had been reduced to a coin-sized crescent of stragglers in the front. What it all means, I have no clue, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. To soothe the Freudian sting, I surmised that they had just viewed The Last Samurai on DVD and simultaneously just read our Save the Date wedding notices, confounding the two in the synaptic blender of their cerebral cortex. I'm just thankful no ritual suicide was involved. And fortunate for this friend that I was partially distracted by my enjoyment of a very tasty cold, blended coffee drink from Peet's.