I was standing behind you in line for a concert Saturday night. The line was long, and so I hope you’ll forgive me for the time I spent staring at the back of your head.
I am a woman, and I have what can best be described as a shit-ton of hair. This, admittedly, means that I don’t really know what it’s like to be a man with thinning hair. I can imagine, though, that it’s frustrating. So frustrating that you’d be willing to try just about anything.
I am here to tell you – as a friend – that the colored spray you spritzed on your bald spot is not fooling anyone. As a friend, I must tell you that said spray makes it look not like you have hair, but like the crown of your head just got out of an Ash Wednesday service. And the black ashy stuff that was supposed to adhere to your scalp? Isn’t.
Yes. You are molting black fake-hair dandruff.
I’m guessing you aren’t a chimney sweep. There is no reason for your head to be caked in flaky black dust. And as a lady, I can confidently say that hair from a can is not going to get you laid. Personally, I’d be afraid that you’d get black crap all over my upholstery. And that’s not a euphemism.
Embrace the bald spot. Own your noggin. Get that shit off your scalp.