If there’s any template I can apply across the board where being positive is concerned, it’s the approach I’ve taken to being bald.
Being bald isn’t so bad. It really isn’t. I’d even say there’s plenty about being bald that’s positive. For example, I haven’t spent a nickel on a haircut or hair products in, geez, at least 15 years. At $10 to $15 a pop, that’s a lot of bread saved. Being bald means I also spend no time after a shower making myself pretty. Just shower, dress, and go. Being bald means a little bar of soap will do you. No fancy shampoos. No fancy conditioners. No fancy gels. No hair drying. No combs or brushes. Nothing needed but a towel. Hell, a wash cloth will do really. Being bald means my hair is never in my eyes. It means I no longer have cowlicks to keep in the pasture. It means I no longer worry about bedhead. It means no fussing or primping. It means I don’t carry around the same big, fat load of vanity each day that a good many people do. Being bald forced me to accept what I am. And I’m bald, baby.
Oh, some mornings, I wake up after an oddly peaceful night of sleep, groggily stumble to the bathroom, look deep into the mirror, and reality hits harshly. “Frick, it was all a dream. I’m still bald.” And sure, I miss the feeling you get after a haircut and how good creating a new look by growing hair out or cutting it short feels. And I can’t express how much I miss the whole act of sitting in a salon chair and being pampered. I’ll always hold dear that special day in North Platte when that majestic stylist massaged my head for seemingly eons with such tenderness, I swear I would have married her right there based solely on her blessed, beautiful fingers. The hair-induced stupor that little hair siren put me in was beyond blissful. It’s possible to massage a bald head, but it ain’t the same. Trust me on that.
Being bald also means putting up with a certain amount of prejudice. Ask any bald man if you don’t believe me, particularly one who went bald still in his early years. Women look at you differently, if they even look at you at all. Small children poke fun at you. Skinny, bald men are perceived as weaklings. Bald men with goatees and a certain edgy look might even be associated as being a skinhead or white supremacist. (It’s happened.) Even weather taunts a bald man. Winter wind pistol whips a bald man’s head unmercifully. Summer sun blisters his scalp with like a frying pan gone mad. Rain drops “splat” like a stick hitting a drum. Sunbeams reflect uncomfortably off his head into the eyes of those around him. (It’s happened.) Being bald is a burden—if you let it be.
I came to terms with my baldness a long time ago. There was no choice. My hair wasn’t going to grow back. There were no miracle cures waiting to undo what genetics and gravity were performing right before my eyes. The writing was on the wall (or on the pillow and shower floor as the case was). Going bald was a reality I couldn’t avoid or pretend wasn’t happening. It made its presence known strand by strand. Going bald wasn’t easy; I liked my hair. It was a big part of my identity. Hell, my hair even won me “Best Hair, Class of 1985.” But going bald wasn’t the end of days. It wasn’t a tragedy. It was just a minor inconvenience that gradually turned into a non-issue, at least for me. Better, being bald forced me to take the focus off of looks and appearances and put them where they belonged: integrity, intelligence, humor, morals, decency, compassion, understanding, patience, passion, etc.
Would I take my hair back if given the chance? You’re damn right. But I’m good with my current state of being. Now, that’s positive.
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