HAIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW
Somebody at work described me as "bald."
Let me offer some clarification on this. I am not "bald." I have a shaved head. There is a big difference.
Bald guys are helpless victims of genetics. Their hair is falling out and there is nothing they can do about it.
Sure, they can get a toupee, or a "hair system" or a transplant. But we've all seen those guys. They're not fooling anyone except themselves.
I am not a victim. I have taken a pro-active approach to the issue of hair loss. My hair started falling out, and I did something about it.
I said to my hair, "You can't quit. You're fired!"
As an adopted kid, I really wanted to look like my father. So I styled my hair just like he did. I was the only six year-old with a comb-over.
Now, thirty years later, we once again have the same hair: None.
Somehow, I managed to inherit male pattern baldness from my adopted father. I think this is some kind of medical miracle. Somebody should call The New England Journal of Medicine, or the The National Enquirer or Teen People.
I actually started to lose my hair when I was 18 years old. Mary, my girlfriend at the time, realized what was happening and brought it to my attention.
She didn't mind, though. She was ten years older than me. I think she was happy that I was going to look closer in age to her.
Of course, I was horrified. I started watching late-night hair loss infomercials. I tried Rogaine. I tried Propecia. I tried prayer.
I was like, "My hair, my hair! Why hast thou forsaken me?"
For ten years, I was a victim of hair loss. Then I ended my relationship with the older woman and started dating Maggie, the college intern at work.
Maggie was the one who finally convinced me to shave my head. It was a tough decision to make. But when a hot, 22 year-old blond tells me to do something, I listen.
It was hard saying goodbye to my hair. I loved my hair, even though it deserted me.
I feel sort of the same way about my birth mother.
And if either one of them comes back some day, all will be forgiven.