On Baldness

I think I started going bald in High School. I didn't want to admit it then, and my hair had always been light and thin, but by the time I was a junior in college, I couldn't wear it over my ears anymore; an obliging female friend cropped it close. By last year, at age twenty-six, I was bic-ing my head as a reasonable solution, and wearing hats to keep my pate warm and un-sunburnt.

Now, it's not really so bad to be bald. One saves money on haircuts and hair products. Once the mild embarrassment always attendent on admitting the fact is overcome, then baldness is simply, well, a matter of fact. Many men wear it very well, with a sort of intellectual, statesman-like aura. It suggests a certain type of manliness, and unselfconsciousness when handled with aplomb rather than vague shame.

The irksome thing about being bald is the sheer monotony of it. There are essentially two ways of wearing baldness (discounting, of course, the tonsured pony-tail of the comic book connoisseur and geriatric Hell's Angel): the ring about the ears, or the full cue-ball. That's pretty much it. Sure, hats and glasses can dress up a look, but you're pretty much stuck with those two.  And that is why I most envy those full heads of hair.

You might remember the old pen drawings in barbershops, the ones which show the essential types of hair cuts? Well those are all off limits. And bald isn't a choice. So never will I get to suavely comb my hair into a sweeping Draper part, never will I have a chance at a real barber haircut, never will anyone run their fingers through my luxurious hair.

Oh well. At least I save money, and Patrick Stewart and Michael Jordan are with me.