Call it silly or childish. Call it impulsive or bizarre. Call it what you will. I call it a pre-emptive strike against male-pattern baldness.
Friday night, after some glorious pulled pork, the decision was made that I would be taking clippers to my head, to the remnants of a once-glorious head of hair. I would be taking the leap that so many men before me have taken. Those brave men must have, like me, looked into a steamy mirror every morning, only to be confronted by increasing amounts of bare scalp staring back at them. Those courageous heroes of yester-year must have, like me, found that there is no winning formula (Grecian or otherwise) against male pattern-baldness. Those immortal souls of battles lost must have, like me, understood that the receding hairline never gives up and that the first time through with the buzzing clippers might very well be the final time to be seen with the vigor, virility, and vivaciousness of a real man.
So, I did it. It is gone. The hair has been swept away like so many memories, like so many lost opportunities. In return, I have acquired maintenance-free mornings and a whole new line of jokes.
If anyone needs me, I’ll be sulking on the couch – eating potato chips and drinking diet root beer.