Time for a name change?

Oh, y'all, I forgot to tell you that the Redheaded Kid got his hair cut. Before yesterday, he had kind of long shaggy hair that fell all in his face. When the Redheaded Kid was indulging in any non-cancerous recreational activities, he'd just kind of swing his hair down over his face and he looked like so many other young mopey boys. But, folks, he walked in my house last night with this short 'do that let you see his face and, wow, I'm afraid I'm going to have to change his nickname to the Redheaded Man. He looks hot! And manly. Anyway, he got a hair cut because he quit his job. The reasons why are all very convoluted and I would have listened more carefully, but I was drunk, reading Walt Whitman, listening to rap music, and eating cookies. In other words, I was distracted. But, for some reason, he told his manager to fuck off and walked out of work, never to return. And so he got a hair cut because he's looking for a new job. "I'm just going to tell them right up front that I can't pass the drug test. I mean, why waste my time and theirs?" He said. "You could always stop doing drugs," I pointed out. "Listen, B.," he leaned over towards me, pointing his finger right in my face. "You can't ask me to do that. My life sucks. I'm twenty years old. I live with my parents. And I don't have a job. Smoking pot is all I have." "Okay," I said. "But then how are you going to get a job?" "I'm not. I'm going back to school." "They have the best drugs at college," chimed in the Butcher. "How do you know? You went to college for half a semester." I said. "Exactly," he smiled and reached for one of my cookies.