Facebook.com can get you into trouble sometimes. And I'm not talking about potential employers scanning your profile for inappropriate wall posts about the time you got blackout drunk and peed on the side of a building in Faneuil Hall.
I'm not even referring to when you come home late at night from a party and think it's a great idea to poke girls you went to high school with or send one a message asking if she'd "like to go to dinner sometime?"
No, those make for awkward situations, but it's the kind of awkward you can ignore. You can delete a wall post; avoid eye contact when you see the girl. The public urination thing I'm not so sure about you might have to register as a sex offender.
But I digress. All of those things are reversible, but something I still can't wrap my head around is the concept of the Facebook photo album. Facebook decided in November of 2006 that it was a great idea to trust my idiot friends to post any picture they want of me and then put it up on my profile until I decide I should probably de-tag it.
Well, Facebook doesn't know my friends.
I used to let my friend Saadon buzz my head until one day I came home with a Mohawk and my mother screamed, "Do not let Saadon cut your hair ever again!" Because I am a mama's boy, I decided a month later (after my hair had grown back in) to get my haircut in Davis Square by a dynamic duo my friend Eni likes to refer to as "the Italian ladies."
I thought I'd be in and out in twenty minutes with minimal damage done. But for whatever reason, I walked out with a bowl cut. I don't mean a subtle, maybe-you-won't-notice bowl cut. We're talking about a full-fledged Beatles-meets-the-twins-from-Full-House bowl cut. It was atrocious.