Thanks to the wonders of genetics – one day probably about ten years from now – I’m pretty sure I’m going to be bald.
Bald scares people.
I imagine when people first started going bald – whenever that was – mothers would rope their children in quickly when stumbling upon a hair-less head, explaining, “We don’t go near the scary bald men, they are evil. Not to mention ugly.”
I’m not scared of going bald though.
I’m scared of roller coasters (because hurtling through the sky at 70 miles an hour with only a single bar of steel across my lap keeping me from becoming a splattering on the pavement is not my idea of fun) but not of losing my hair.
I figure, things change when you get older. You know, you start to get confused and frightened by teenagers, your conversations with friends always end up being about what sickness you have and for me – I’ll lose my hair.
I’ll tell you what I won’t do: I won’t be trying one of those treatments or hair-replacement surgeries.
The guys that do that are confused about life. They think, for some reason, that as they age life is supposed to get better.
By getting the hair-replacement, they think they’ve beaten fate and things will be better from now on. But in reality, their friends, instead of saying “Man, Bob’s really losing his hair, huh?” They say, “Man, Bob’s really got hair from his ass on his head, huh?”
I’m going to be fine when I lose it all. It’s served me well, it deserves some time off.
And besides, I couldn’t have gone through all of my life looking like this – could I?
I don’t think so.