Greetings. I am the noble and ancient technology known as braiding. Long have my hairy weavings adorned the heads of queens, the lapels of dandies, the beard of Osiris! What other art so perfectly captures the act of taking three strands of something, then crossing one over the middle one, and then the other one over the middle one, and so on, until three somethings come together as one? None but the act of braiding.

But, for shame! The late 20th century—with its "rock" and its "roll"—has conferred upon my burnished reputation a dark, douche-shaped stain: I have, of late, been forced to publicly augment the orangey dome of a fool! A fool named Axl Rose. As I, the noble and ancient technology known as braiding, understand it, this Rose was once a leader among men, a merry snake god who made love to countless ladies. Now he is a fat clown. But worst of all, following his fall from grace, the withered Rose has taken to coating his head in my elegant twinings! Like corroding ropes of cheese, they sway and dangle from his aging pate. I shall not suffer such humiliation quietly. Relinquish your scalpal grip on my follicular children, rogue, or face consequences most dire! Expect a call from my attorney! Oh, and Chinese Democracy sucks!