July 2, 2013 5 Comments
Sunday 30 June 2013
You know who pisses me off? The guy who shaves his head but is perfectly capable of growing a full, luxurious head of hair. THAT’S WHO!
There’s something cosmically wrong about that. It’s like thumbing your nose at the Virgin Mary. I truly believe it upsets the balance of the universe. It probably causes global warming and birth defects in kittens. Do we need another five legged Garfield stinking up the joint?
The shaving of a man’s head should be sacred. It should only be reserved for the folically-challenged. All you pro-wrestlers and juiced-up bouncers can take a flying fuck off the top of the Chrysler Building. Shaving your head in the face of hair-loss is utterly terrifying. It’s like jumping out a third story window into a bucket of water. Chances are very slim that things will turn out right. I’d be willing to guess that most men who have crossed the threshold from male pattern baldness to gleaming dome of chrome (like I have) did so with a sense of urgency verging on feminine wheezing anxiety.
I remember the day I realized it was time to give up the comb-forward doo and cut bait and run (straight for the sheep sheers).
It was 2006. June. 2:47PM. I think it was a Saturday.
I’d just finished changing the oil on my motorcycle and decided to take it for a quick spin to make sure I put everything back together correctly. As I rounded the corner towards home, I gave the bike a little extra throttle and just happened to peer into the rear view.
What I saw made my heart lurch in my chest. A high-pitched squeal burst from somewhere deep in my gut. It was a painful, chilling sound. Much like the one a raccoon makes when being devoured by a komodo dragon. Look it up.
Now, I have to give myself credit for a few things. First, for not immediately driving the bike off the nearest suspension bridge. Second, for actually managing to drop the kick stand before sprinting into the house like an escaped con. For you see, the reflection I saw staring back at me… Well, it was me. However, my hair was standing back from my head and waving hello like a Macy’s Day Parade Santa. That’s right. My comb-forward had betrayed me.
My mutinous hairline had receded waaaay past the point of no return. I mean, that sucker was racing down my back! No amount of cajoling, pleading, or bribery was bringing it back. I’d been living the Lie of the Dreaded Comb-Forwardsapien. A fearsome hairless (no shit) ape that tends to live most of its adult life in denial. The Comb-Forwardsapien can usually be found driving a late-model sports car and shouting into his cell phone on elevators.
I don’t remember much between the time of spotting my heinous hairline and feverishly shaving my skull. I simply found myself in the bathroom staring into the mirror. Tufts of hair dusted my shoulders. More piles of it lay defeated in the sink and on the bathroom floor tiles. It looks like a terrier exploded. The clippers still buzzed in my hand.
“That’s not too bad… that’s not too bad,” I muttered with all the confident insistence of a man who has just cleaned up a triple murder scene with a squirt gun and a Sham-Wow.
As you can see, it’s a traumatic experience. One that still haunts me on those cold, hat-less nights. So if you’re one of those hyper cool head-shavers. You know, the “I don’t shave out of necessity, I shave for convenience” guy. You should watch your back. You’re the equivalent of that skinny chick in a crowd of fat girls yelling about her “chunky” calves. You’re marked for death. Beware.
If you’re in the No Choice But To Shave gang (like me), there are a few known-knowns:
You know the day/time you first shaved your noggin. You might even have a few abandoned locks in a scrapbook. Hats are your friend. Shiny head jokes are soooo funny. I mean HILARIOUS (got any dead puppy jokes you want to tell too?). Shaving cuts in this arena are life-threatening, usually requiring moderate triage.