Hair
You can tell a lot about a man and his lid.
Combover? In deep denial.
Ponytail? Overcompensating.
Shaved? A balding man of action.
But what do we know of the urban, metrosexual male who – oh, I don’t know – checks out his ‘do in every reflective surface he passes? Vain, perhaps. Insecure, definitely.
The kind of guy who would go through all your stuff while you’re asleep, yes.
Behold the treachery. Immaculately coiffed, not one carefully razored strand out of place. It’s a feat of follicular engineering that takes no less than three kinds of product and 45 minutes in the
bathroom. Not even Beckham at the height of his fauxhawk splendour could match this.
Vain, insecure and separated at birth from Donald Trump.But mine. All mine.
