The most obvious thing I could point out is that no matter how much you might enjoy smoking weed, being a scruffy Caucasian white guy from Arizona pretty well eliminates your claim on the distinctive hairstyle of a black Jamaican religious sect.

Then I might draw to your attention that you seem to have no knowledge of whatever secret techniques Rastafarians use to keep their locks moderately clean and presentable. Their locks look like slinky tendrils of tribal goodness.

Yours look like you hold them together with Crisco and poop.

Other topics we might discuss include: the laughable pretention of styling your hair in the manner of impoverished third world people, even as you sit in a gourmet coffee shop nibbling a $9 veggie burrito and sipping a $7 mango jet tea; the impending expiration date of your locks, i.e. finally finishing that art degree; and whether dreadlocks really call for streaks of cotton candy pink.

What really confuses me though is that you don’t seem to understand that even the phrase “white guy with dreadlocks” is, in and of itself, a complete argument against your hair.

Why, when you hear the very words “white guy with dreadlocks,” don’t you immediately reach to your greasy scalp with tactile horror, crying out for all lookers-on to hear:

“What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m a white guy with dreadlocks!”

Also, you smell.

But one thing at a time.