On Going Bald

It’s been a mortifying matter of a multitude of years, this falling out of love between my locks and I; I noticed the shiny, shitty spot on my scalp as I ran the comb through my hair as it collected clumps of polishing pomade. The ceiling fan caused a break in the gleam and summoned a ghastly grunt within. My Lucky filterless hung suspended by a bit of saliva on my lower lip as I squinted from the smoke and beheld the baldness in my dirty restroom mirror…I knew in my heart of hearts, that I wasn’t so lucky and that my head…it was toasted. But the days turned into months and the months to years, and out of sight, out of mind, I had heard people say, and so it went that awful way—for quite some time. Women came in and out of my life; they pulled and yanked and never said a word. Never did I consider that one day I would become part of the fucking Follicly Challenged Club.

Within the epoch of less-than-epic denial, bald men, after many an action film—after a stack or two of high-end magazine models, became sexy to me and I relished in the many voiced opinions of the mass of vixens who posited that chrome-domed polished-headed men were provocative. From vengeful hitmen, daring drivers, and yippie-ki-yayed motherfuckers, to bloated Buddhas, all had their place in the planet and some in the loins of lionesses. But no, not me…no way, no how, how could this be?

I am Forty years old now and just recently got tired of combing my hair this direction and that one, only to live daily in self-deceit. Man, I put up a fight, and can’t call it “the good fight” since, I finally admitted defeat and decided to shave it all off. Most people tried talking me out of it—bless their kind hearts, but I knew, like all men know, when it’s time to give up the jig.

‘Liberated’ was the word that came to mind when I stood up from the Salon chair under the buzzer of a bouncy, blimpy bimbo who also tried selling me the lie. So she could continue to cut my unthinkably thinning hair, no doubt. Can’t blame her, I imagine that Juicy Couture and Pink wardrobe do not come cheap for a girl in her early twenties.

When I arrived home after the drive from the Salon, flashes of the diaphanously discarded mane penetrated my mind in a hot shower as I rubbed my scalp. The water hit my skin and I dug the delightful sensation. Regret was now beginning to hold my confidence in ransom.  I stepped out, dried myself, and stared in the mirror…I was a fucking god, I thought to myself, and even if my head fell off, I’d be a decapitated deity—I knew it then, for the burning black flame, which is my incendiary confidence, kicked in and commenced with a ruling roar. I had survived homeless in a Third World country at the age of eight during the eighties, there was no way this was gonna trip me up.

My apprehension almost apprehended me, but as the hours went by, my superego set its fists at its waist line while its red cape flowed…and I started to love my new look.

So, for all you men struggling with this balding battle of bruised ego, just let go, baby…just let go. Embrace the truth. Accept the older, wiser, sexier you. And carry on, my wayward, balding sons.

∞

”Engage.”

—Luc-Picard