In time, I will be bald.
This fact was first driven into my consciousness when I learned that the genetic marker for baldness is carried on the mother’s genes. I looked around at my grandpa and my uncles, some of whom were quite young at the time, and saw about enough hair to cover the heads of maybe two or three small birds. The writing was on the skull.
Then, sometime during my early twenties, I could no longer lie to myself about what other people called my “receding hairline” and I called “localized forehead expansion.” A few years later, I realized I was leaving enough hair behind on my pillow night after night to create a whole new cast of Muppets.
Sigh. So yeah, I’d say I’ve been pretty much hip to my impending baldness for a solid decade now. And I don’t really care. I see lots of guys who’ve shaved their heads so they can tell themselves that they’re not bald. Especially since Breaking Bad made it so cool:
However, I’ve committed to balding gracefully.
But…there are times…
These stupid hairs hanging on for dear life are the kind of thing that’d make a man blow-up a wheelchair-ridden mob boss. It’s not just that they won’t give up the ghost, it’s that they insist on exactly one configuration: standing straight up. If I don’t keep my hair super-short, I always look like I’m about ten minutes past the last time I stuck my finger in a light socket. They are insane, degenerate pieces of filth, and they deserve to die.
I guess what I mean is: I’ve accepted that I’ll be bald one day, but I can’t take this process of balding. When they’re gone, their death will satisfy me. Until then, they’d better tread lightly. Or like, lie down or something.