My father is bald. My father is as bald as the day is long. There is so little hair left on his pate that, from a distance, his remaining mane appears to be a strap keeping his glasses from falling off of his head.
What’s terrifying about Pop is that in photos from the early ’70s, he has a thick, shiny mop. He has mutton chops, for heaven’s sake. For Pop, the luxury of a glossy and wavy head of black hair would soon come to an end: When he was 22, it began falling out. When I was little, I remember his hairline being at the midpoint of his head. By the time I was in high school, it was all gone.
My father began losing his hair in his mid-twenties; I am 24, and, like a total idiot, I got my hair cut this past weekend. I don’t feel as if it has been fully appreciated by the public at large. Please, allow me to explain.
For seven months, I’ve been growing my hair without change. It has gotten curly around my ears. It has poofed out on the sides and made me look fat-headed. I have dyed it orange, purple and black again, and have left the evidence of these indiscretions sitting on top of me like a freak flag. I have spent more on pomade than soap, even, at long last, using my roommate’s Royal Crown Pomade, a mix of Vaseline and olive oil.
I’ve done all of this because I’m terrified of going bald. I know baldness is supposed to be carried through the maternal side, but every time I look at my father - and his two bald brothers - I get worried.
For the better part of a year, I was determined to enjoy long hair while I still had it to enjoy. I did everything I could to keep it neat, and I tried to ignore the derisive comments from my parents, friends and girlfriend. On Saturday, I could take no more. I scheduled an appointment with Kaci.
Saturday morning, I waited for her in the salon’s lounge. I leafed through oversized magazines. I stuck Post-it Notes on pages I liked. I wept a little as I was led by Kaci to the shampoo seats.
“Wow, you have really nice hair. It’s so thick,” she said, lathering away.
“Thank you. You don’t think it’s thinning, do you?” I quickly twisted in the seat, shampoo flying everywhere, making sure she looked me in the eyes when she answered.
“No, not at all,” she replied. “Let me get this shampoo out of my eyes and we’ll get started.”
A few minutes later, she returned. “What would you like today?”
“Well,” I said, “I like the long hair, but the girlfriend wants it shorter.”
This was a half-truth at best, but I’ve found that when making potentially catastrophic fashion decisions, it’s best to blame it on my girlfriend. I get more pity that way.
“Um,” Kaci muttered, “How short? Did you dye your hair purple?”
“Really short. Short enough to not comb. Purple? Yeah - the girlfriend wanted to see what it would look like.”
Kaci started snipping away. “You’re such a good boyfriend.”
Curls started tumbling down around my body. Gleaming, thick black curls, once on my head - never to return! What was I thinking? Ten minutes before, I had been Cary Grant, Errol Flynn, Fabio! Long hair was the epitome of class and beauty! Without length, I was Drew Carey, Kevin Costner
