Or at least it's a rigamarole. For a folk etymology, I like to imagine that I'm making a costume for a costume party, and I need a fake mustache or something, and I can't find one anywhere so I look up how they're made, and it turns out most fake facial hair appliances are made from yak hair, but I can't find a supplier for yak hair anywhere, which is why my quest to dress up as Fu Manchu or Mr. Spock for Halloween has led me to a yak ranch 90 minutes out of town patiently explaining to a bemused yak rancher why I'm standing around his pasture with a straight razor.

"I need to shave a yak," I explain. "That's the only way I can get yak hair."

I'm in a deeply absurd situation, purely as a consequence of perfectly normal and understandable desires that just got completely out of control. I take in a deep breath, the smells of fresh air and yak manure and whatever the hell they feed yaks, gazing upon miles upon miles of gently rolling hills before rugged mountain peaks in the distance, awkwardly shaking my can of shaving cream. The rancher squints at me. I imagine him as an old man, his face weathered and wrinked, wearing suspenders and a red flannel shirt. "Why do you need yak hair?", he asks. I sigh. "It's a long story."