Somewhere in Wales, a phone rings. A very blonde man picks up.
“Hello?”
“Aaron? Jean Paul here.”
“Boëtius?”
“No.”
“Gaultier?”
“No.”
“Sartre?”
“NO. This is Jean-Paul Agon, le CEO of L’Oréal.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. What’s going on, JP?”
“Aaron, I will confess, you were not our first choice for this sponsorship. I wanted a Frenchman to be the face – or hair, if you will – of L’Oréal, but none of these andouille calling themselves Les Bleus would agree.”
“Hey, Giroud’s a good guy – great head of hair on him.”
“Aaron, you were not even our first choice in Welshpeople. Before you, we approached your comrade with the silly ponytail, but he turned us down. Ridiculous, when you consider that he already looks like a small goat with its head put on backwards.”
“Wait, what? JP, have you ever seen a goat, because I’m pretty sure –”
“Aaron, listen to moi. You were our hair of last resort. When you got us that Belgian muppet Fellaini we thought that would be your best work.”
“Yeah man, Marouane’s fro flopping yellow all over the pitch like that! I thought you’d like that one!”
“It was like your Arséne Wenger: a small success masquerading as a large man.”
“Ha, yeah, Arséne’s a tall bloke. Especially in that winter coat. Makes him look like he’s hiding another guy underneath there, you know, like he’s standing on some other coach’s shoulders. Hey, maybe that’s it, like he’s got van Gaal under there!”
“You had one disaster that made us question both your taste and your eyesight. This player of the city of Stoke, this Marko Arnautović, has desecrated the House of L’Oréal with his – pah! – I shall not debase myself to call it a hair ‘style!’”
“JP, man, that’s a classic manbun. It’s like a young thing. You know, I think you’re just not down with what bros are wearing these days. Not everything has to be all mousse, and pomade, and whatever.”
“We French are enlightened people, Aaron, and as you and everyone in the entire world knows, the arbiters of all that is fashion-forward. We are aware of the arrondissement of Williamsburg in le ville of Brooklyn, and we are not averse to a tasteful manbun, when done with class and refinement. However, the triangular attempt at a proper hairstyle atop the head of this Marko is an insult to the very band that is tasked with tying up the hair.”
“Wow, man. Harsh.”
“You redeemed yourself somewhat with the sophomoric flop of fringe on the forehead of the Fabio Borini –”
“Wow, man. Poetic.”
“Aaron. Attende. After Borini you began to hit your stride. You snagged a Frenchman, and that is no small feat. This monstrously expensive young Parisian stranded in some godforsaken English town playing for a Portuguese egomaniac stands out among the other egomaniacs around him with his beautiful blonde coif.”
“Oh yeah, Paulie P? Great stuff from him at Man United, super player.”
“We at L’Oréal are impressed by few things: red lipstick that doesn’t bleed, a lack of split ends, and famous people using our products. Have you seen our commercials? Eva Longoria swears by our boxes of dye. Does she really use them in her fancy fancy mansion? Who cares?”
“Wow, mate, I loved that Desperate Housewives. Is that still on?”
“I do not know, nor care. Aaron. This last month has seen your great triumph on behalf of the L’Oréal group, one which we had not foreseen possible. When the small man from Barcelona was seen with his hair bright as a beacon, blonde as L’Oréal Beach Blonde Number 200, we knew we had not mischosen.”
“Actually, JP, Leo is Argentinian –“
“No matter. He is famous, and now he is blonde. Well done, Aaron.”
“Yeah, thanks, JP! Glad you’re happy and all that. Took some time to change people’s minds, make them realize the look was not ‘stupid and ridiculous,’ like they thought at first, but ‘supercool’ like I kept telling them.”
“Now, listen, Aaron. Your Welsh teammate, the ponytailed goat – he is friends with the one who likes to take his shirt off, yes? Let’s see about making him a blonde, too…”
