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Hair is a beautiful thing. It frames your face, it keeps your head warm in the winter, it provides shelter to all sorts of God’s Little Icky Creatures. And I know all of this because I used to have hair—a lot of it. Then, one day, while my back was turned, my hair said Adios to my scalp and headed south for the winter. And I think I know why.
When I was young, I was full of energy. I was excited to be alive. I tried new things, went new places. I jumped ramps on my bicycle, sometimes slamming my face into the dirt, but always getting up to do it all over again. I was living life to the fullest, doing things that make a person’s hair stand up and say, “That’s right, baby! This is the life! The world is one big ride, and I’m never getting off.”
Everything changed when I bought a comfortable couch and started watching The Wheel of Fortune.
My energy left me. I stopped trying new things. I stopped going to new places. I groaned at the thought of having to get up and actually do something. I starting yelling at the contestants on The Wheel whenever they called a vowel when it wasn’t necessary. To be blunt about it, I became lazy—and my hair couldn’t take it anymore.
My wavy brown hair just gave up. It longed for happier days, but it knew those days were over. One minute, all that hair was on top of my head living the good life, then, sometime in the middle of the night, it stood on the very edge of my scalp and jumped, committing follicle suicide. I found it lying on my pillow the next morning, a pathetic shadow of its former self.
I tried getting my “exciting” life back. I bought a motorcycle. I learned how to fly a plane. I bought some goats. But once hair gives up, it gives up for good—and the remaining hair can do nothing but turn white in shock because it knows its days are numbered.
And why am I going on and on about the ever-increasing retreat of my hairline? Because my family and I recently went to have our picture made, and the man I saw in the photograph was not me. Of course, my family tried to make me think it was me, but I wasn’t fooled. I’m young and in my prime, with locks down to my shoulders, with maybe an earring and a ponytail and hiding a full-body tattoo that would make Mike Tyson jealous.
That man in the photograph was old and grey and looking like he just came from an old folks’ home, where nobody comes to visit and the only way out is through the back door in a hearse. No ponytail, no earring, no locks, and certainly no tattoo.
I guess some people would say that I was lucky not to have much hair left. They’d say it’s easier to fix, and no matter how hard the wind blows, it always stays in place. But they’re wrong. I’d much rather use a brush and comb on my hair than a towel and Turtle Wax. Not only that, but wind blowing through your hair sounds wild and carefree, whereas wind blowing over your scalp sounds mild and uptight.
If I could live my life over, I’d live it on the edge, always one step away from disaster, never knowing what the next day would bring, and I wouldn’t give a flip about Vanna or Pat. And I’d do it all for the sake of my hair.
So, young people, listen up! No matter what others may tell you, baldness has nothing to do with genetics. It has to do with giving your hair something to live for. If you want to be bald, buy a recliner. If you want to keep that full head of hair, go skydiving.
