A Boy And His Hair

A dysfunctional relationship in three rather silly acts.

I refuse to quit, for I am currently too legit.

• Unknown

Like a lot of men, I’ve had to face the unpleasant reality that my hair is disappearing and it’s not coming back. I’ve known this for quite a few years, so I’ve had an agreement with Erin that when the time arrives that the real estate on top is too thin, we’d have “The Talk.”

But I’m getting ahead of myself. During the pandemic, when all of us were growing our hair because we had no other choice, I, like most of us, was getting frustrated because I couldn’t get my hair cut. And I’m not someone who looks good with long hair. My hair is very fine and, since I, unfortunately, inherited my maternal grandfather’s bald spot, the top of my head was rather sparsely populated.

I reached the point where I realized that I had two choices. I could bitch and moan about not being able to get my hair cut, or I could deal with it myself.

And so I chose option #2 and shaved my head. I didn’t tell Erin beforehand because I didn’t want her to talk me out of it. When I get something fixed in my head, I tend to get tunnel vision, and so it was in this case.

Erin was surprised when she came home because she’d never seen me bald, but she got used to it. After all, I was still me…just without hair. And since I couldn’t get my hair cut, it was the best low-maintenance option available to me.

So, for the better part of two years, I was bald. It wasn’t a big deal to me, though my niece did suggest that I grow some facial hair so I didn’t look like a man-baby. She did have a good point, so I grew a beard. It made me look older, but it’s not like I’m trying to pick up college girls, though we do live next door to the University of Portland. If looking older is the worst thing I have to deal with, I think I’m doing pretty well.

About eight or nine months ago, Erin began to wonder what I’d look like with hair. It took her a few weeks, but she finally talked me into growing my hair back. And I have to admit that I liked it, save for Grandpa Stewart’s bald spot on the top of my head. There wasn’t much that I could do about that.

So that brings me to “The Talk.” Even though I’m taller than a lot of folks, enough so they probably don’t notice my bald spot, I’ve never wanted to be one of those guys who’s trying to compensate for or cover up his increasingly obvious hair loss. When Erin told me that things were getting pretty thin up there, I grabbed my iPhone and took a photo so I could see for myself.

Sure enough, it looked like a fresh clear-cut in the Amazon. There were a few wisps of hair, just enough to remind me that I had some up there, but it was clear what direction things were heading. If biology is destiny, my destiny was becoming increasingly clear.

I know that there are treatments that, if I was so inclined, I could spend a lot of money on. I could devote a lot of time, money, and effort trying to restore my hair…but to what end? Pills, creams, hair plugs, ultraviolet treatments, prayer beads…I didn’t want to be chasing something that I wasn’t sure was even all that important to me.

Hair is very important to some men and it can be tied up with their identity and sense of masculinity. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m certainly not going to judge someone if that’s the path they choose. But that’s not where I saw myself heading.

To me, it’s just hair. It’s never been that important to me. I made an appointment with my barber, had a short conversation about my options, and decided that my best choice was to go au natural. And so we did.

OK, so I’m not the greatest-looking guy, and I don’t know if the lack of hair is an improvement or not, but the good news is that I no longer have to worry about bedhead.

It took about eight months to grow my hair back…and about five minutes to shave it off. And I expect it will remain this way for the duration because I’m choosing not to fight the battle with my grandfather’s bald spot. Grandpa Stewart died from lung cancer when I was about nine, and there are only two things I remember about him. One is that he was a miserable human being, and the other is his bald spot. Fortunately, I didn’t inherit the former but I couldn’t escape the latter.

Ah, well…biology is destiny, no? At least I didn’t inherit his asshole side. Yeah, things could’ve been a whole lot worse. I have no idea what I might’ve inherited from my paternal grandfather because he died when I was very young, but I’m going to assume it wasn’t his sweet disposition, since I’m told he didn’t have one. That I developed on my own.

With the mid-April weather here in Portland being distressingly cold and damp, I’m rediscovering that hair actually does provide effective insulation. Now that I’m going outside sans insulation, the top of my head is noticing the difference. As I’m writing this, it’s 52 degrees and looking as if it might rain in Portland.

In mid-April. Seriously??

And that’s the news. Stay classy, San Diego….