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| Ditch that f***ing polo shirt… |
If you’ve had a polo shirt for too long, it will either wither away until the fabric cannot hold itself together anymore OR it will get this weird crunchy feel to it. Potato chip-like feel is always romantic, so no girl, EVER. How does it get that way to begin with? I’m befuddled. I don’t know which is worse because on the one hand, if it’s hanging on by a thread… I’m going to see your hairy nipple. Yes, men, this is for you. Unless a lady nearby has a hairy nipple. And it’s showing. And there’s more than two. I would so instagram that. Anyway, on the other hand, if it’s got a rough-like texture like you used every can of starch in America, then that isn’t going to wear well either. Step AWAY… From the starch perp and no one gets hurt. Why do you gents hang onto shirts that have, clearly, been used and abused? Stop it. Let it go. Just a little note, we don’t like that. No girl loves the feeling more, than trying to keep your shirt from scratching the hell out of her while she hugs you. Hi, thanks for the itchy rash. Appreciate you. Keep your wardrobe updated. Rid yourself from that crispy polo and feel compelled to add a trendy scarf to your trendy beard. And maybe a new Ralph Lauren loin cloth. Or a shirt. Or remain the same, continuing a chick-repellent legacy for years to come. Let’s just agree, to free, the crusty tunic from its obligations to fulfill bigger dreams. Like… In the city dump.
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| Do I make a left to find Madagascar? #zebralife |
Which brings me to my hair. Huh? Yup. No Segway. Just totally committed to this unstrung, flitting thought. Over the past few months, my hair has gotten drier and crispier itself. Cockatoo bangs are all the rage. I didn’t know if it was a sign of cervical cancer or I just needed a blowout. So I did some investigating and while, yes, the unneeded -and undeserving-stress I have been under could be a culprit, I cannot very well commit to that because I’m a believer of the “live. love. laugh.” variety. I have a picture frame that says it to prove it. I brush dirt off with a tiny flick of the wrist. And anti-bacterial wipes. And I don’t let shit get under my skin too often because I know how karma works. Like a bitch. In case you didn’t know. That being said, I had a light bulb moment. Highlights. No, not the kids magazine. Not a highlighter marker, to quickly identify subject matter in a large body of text. Freaking, hair highlights. At the beginning of summer, I went and had highlights done. The hairdresser put toner (fancy word for you won’t get green or orange hair) on the blonde but not the brown, which gave me an orangey tint as opposed to the hints copper and caramel I was going for. Or orange. Which, I have had before, by the way. Not the Orange problem. So this wasn’t an ‘ohhhhh, I’ll give this tilt a whirl’ moment… This was a drop in the proverbial bucket. Or so I thought. Sorry guys, all this nonsense just means she gave me orange hair with stripy white highlights. Kind of like a zebra. With orange and white stripes. I showed her a picture of what I wanted. Tada. Seemed simple. It was the same picture I used with my hair guy that I had committed to, ONLY, let touch my hair for nine years. He retired. Good for him…. Argh. I. Hope. He’s. Happy. Mental note: Egg his house on the way home. Then I showed this broad a picture of ME, with the final result of the initial picture. Right. Seems well thought out. Voilà! Is, tangerine, a hair shade? Well planned. I even had photos for her to reference. With my own hair. On MY head. Post highlights, years prior. I swear, she had no iota of a clue, how to do hair. Maybe she was color blind? I could forgive that. So now I’m doing damage control. Run your fingers through my hair and you’ll take a bunch of it with you. Waited two months or so before going back to my regular hair color. Torturous. Using deep conditioners from salons. No luck. Home hair solutions to put moisture back. Didn’t happen. Sadly, that chick over processed my hair… And I’ve gotta wait this out. Mayonnaise just isn’t going to fix this mess.
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