Never trust a man...

…who frosts his hair. That’s right, I said FROSTS. Not highlights his hair…not colors his hair…FROSTS.

Don’t even give me your best rationalization for this absurd undertaking. Any man who frosts his hair isn’t to be trusted…under any circumstance. Contradictory I know…to my previous assertions regarding not judging books by covers. Contrary I know…coming from a man who wears bracelets and girl shoes. Shut up. I have my opinions and if I want yours, I'll give it to you. Or you can just start your own damn blog.

And while I’m on the subject, let’s not let the issue of hair coloring get by us. WTF? I mean really. Come on Wayne, give it up. That hair color looks about as natural as your plastic surgery.

And good ole Strom was the poster child for hair plugs and orange hair dye. Tang I believe, was his color of choice. And dig the bow tie. "Ok den Miss Maggie...y'all have a nice time heeyuh in Washin'tun now."  (It's hard to write a tangy Strom Thurmond dotage accent)

I have nothing to say here. Nothing.

Now back to frosting. This frosting apparatus and the frosting process is part and parcel of my viscerally negative reaction to hair frosting. It goes back to the eighties when I was living in Charlotte, North Carolina. There was a particular summer that was one of my best post-undergrad summers—ever. Living large with a couple of my KA buddies and hitting The Cellar every weekend, we manifested every behaviour typical of twenty-something year old trad boys. And then...and then...there was a woman.

A moving van pulled up one Saturday morning. We were getting a new neighbor. A moment later a car pulled in behind the moving van and from it emerged a little hottie. A hottie in madras and a sorority jersey and a Tennessee accent. A recent graduate from the University of Tennessee, she was a manufacturers rep for some health and beauty products distributor. For the next six months we were oversupplied with soap and shampoo and other beauty treatments. It was free...we took it. Butcept the hair frosting kits.

But I digress. Surprise there…I know. When my little Tennessee gal stepped out of her car I said loud enough for her to hear it… “thank you Jesus” …but I knew better. I knew better than to thank Jesus for such things. But I did anyway.

Surely she needed assistance moving in and as luck would have it, my roomies were elsewhere so it was only little ole me. So little ole me commenced commencing and move in she/we did. Providence Road Sundries seemed like a logical place to decamp post moving that day and so we went. Let the woo-fest begin.

It was a torrid supernova of a summer. I would come home from work on Friday and, like most afternoons, don my running gear for a five miler. Butcept Miss Tennessee would intercept me and I was easily coaxed out of my run. I remember telling my fratty brothers as I dashed out the door, to wait on me till I returned from my run and I’d go with them for beers. I didn’t return for three days. I’ve always been a slender fella but at one point during this summer of love, one of my cohorts allowed that I looked like a needed i.v. fluids. I was caught-up in the tentacles of neighborly circumstance. What was I gonna do? 

So what does all of this have to do with hair frosting you ask? Hell I don’t know. One afternoon Miss Tennessee rings our little shack. “Can you come over and help me with my hair?” to which I replied “Does ten pounds of flour make a big-ass biscuit?” Remember now, I’ve been conditioned to believe that traversing one hundred and fifty feet and knocking on a door provided me three days worth of distraction. But this visit was different. I walked through her door and let out an audible. My little stunner had a plastic skull cap on her lovely noggin and strands of hair…baby doll plug style…were popping out from various portals. “Here, take this knitting needle and hook some hair through each hole” she said. 

To say that it was some off-putting...scary looking sh_t is an understatement. Scarier when she started scooching the frosting cream all over the exposed hirsutendrils. The experience was Frankensteinish. She declared that "after a fresh frosting, I'll be easier to find in the dark." We cooled things thereafter and one of my roomies stepped in…and actually dated Miss Frosty for the next couple of years. Ladies please...don't let your man see you like this. Ever. You might say..."but Eudell loves me...loves me for ME ... just the way I am."  Ladies, there are some things that regardless of his love for you, Eudell need not see.

So…frost-on, fellas. But realize that we are on to your game. We know the process...you little bathing cap wearing donkey. We are on to your chemically mediated endeavor and please, don’t for a moment try to explain your tendencies. You are not to be trusted. Frosty.

Onward. Non-frosted.

ADG, II