When you stand in line at Starbucks, you see the backs of the people around you. When I stand in line at Starbucks, I see the top of your head. Even though the coffee patrons have spent great effort making their faces and bodies highly presentable, their beauty stops at their forehead. And I see the truth that their roots reveal.

You’re not really blonde. In fact, almost no one is really blonde.

Your weave is beginning to unravel.

Female pattern baldness is a thing, and it’s happening to you.

Your cheap hair replacement surgery makes your follicle patterns resemble crop circles after a plague of locusts.

Your combover is fooling no one, but up close it’s a fascinating structure made from equal parts old hair, rubber cement, and sadness.

You may want to look into a lice removal strategy. Like, today.

That patch of grey you keep re-shaving? It’s gotten wider.

Dandruff held in place with mousse is still dandruff, but thanks for not shedding on me.

Even though you’re completely bald, that’s no excuse not to moisturize your ashy dome.

I offer the previous insights out of love for my fellow humans, and from the desire to not see so much of your raggedy scalps.

I once saw a dude rocking a yarmulke shaped like a cylindrical watermelon slice, complete with seeds and rind! He brought his A-game to his dome, and to him I give a hearty thanks.

As for the rest of ya’s, the bar has been set.