Sing with me…
“Hair. HUH! What is it good for? Absolutely nothin’!”
Now sing without the weeping sound in your voice…
“Hair. HUH! What is it good for? Absolutely nuttin’!”
Those who know me know that, up until about a week ago, I had a full head of hair. I kid you not. I was handsomely hirsute, I thought. Here’s me at the beginning of summer.
And now, I’m bald. BALD! Just like that, I’ve gone from that full, thick moppy head of hair to BALD!
The greatest indignity of all is that It didn’t have to happen.
It was a dark and stormy Saturday afternoon. (Well, okay, it was beautiful and sunny, but it ended up feeling dark and stormy.) I sat in the barber’s chair, comfortable and cozy, confident in the fact that my think head of hair would carry me through to my 47th birthday a week later. The stylist gave me my usual short haircut. Then, in a moment of sheer and utter stupidity, I said, “You know what, I think I’ll get rid of the thinning hair in front. Take your clippers, and clip away to where the hair gets thick.”
Apparently, she thought ALL the hair on the top of my head was thin, and buzzed back to past my crown.
Thick clumps of hair came cascading down on the, oh, what do you call that smock thing they put on you at the barber’s shop? That thing. Thick clumps of hair came cascading down on that thing, accompanied by thick clumps of my pride and thick clumps of my tears.
This is what she did to me. In less than 5 seconds, I’d gone from Moe to Larry. Oh, the humanity!!
There was nothing to be done ‘cept live with the tragedy. I tried to make fun of it. I told some friends I’d just been to the Jefferson County Fair and had fallen into a sheep shearing contest. I told others that I finally decided to pitch my hairpiece. (“I didn’t know you had a hairpiece.” “It was a pretty good one, eh?”)
But mostly, I told people the story of the wicked hair stylist of the west, who probably had some witch’s brew she was concocting that night for her pagan rituals. She probably needed “hair of newt,” and thinking that I resembled Newt Gingrich enough, my hair would do.
After a couple of days pretending as though nothing happened, I decided the new look just wasn’t working. It looked like a mistake. So Tuesday morning, I dispatched my trusty clippers and finished the job.
And so now, I’m bald. From Moe, to Larry, to Curly. Just like that.
It’s not so bad, actually. I find myself rubbing the stubble quite a bit. My hands have become quite soft with all the loofah-like action they’re getting. Some people have commented that it’s a much better look on me. And of course, the hot August weather presented a perfect climate within this mistake was to be made. (I may be bald, but I still refuse to dangle participles. But I digress…)
I wasn’t sure if I would keep this look. I fear what a regrowth might look like. Probably something like this.
And then I decided – I’m done with hair. Good for nothing hair. Takes longer to shower, has to be brushed or combed. Haircuts are expensive (monetarily and emotionally). And my girlfriend likes the bald look. So, I’m done. This morning, I removed the bottles of shampoo and conditioner from the shower, and parked ’em on the dresser in my bedroom. As I did so, I couldn’t help but notice how I’d created something of a shrine.
I’ll leave up this shrine to my former self. I’ll keep wistful thoughts of my thick locks blowing in the wind. I’ll recall the time when, as a child, my misguided barber told my brother and me that we would NEVER grow bald. And I’ll remind myself often that I ALMOST got 47 good years out of that good, old head of hair.
