I’ve decided not to mind that I’m losing my hair. Not that it’s really a choice. And I very much do mind. So maybe what I’m trying to explain is why I’m not going to do anything about it. Although I wish I could.

Maybe you’re wondering why I care so much. Most men bald and it’s more surprising than not to see an old man with a splenetic shock of grey up top. But, you see, I started balding as a young man. Twenty-three to be exact. Okay fair, there are plenty of men who get balder, younger than me, there always is someone who has it worse, but perhaps I still speak for them when I say: this shit sucks.

What’s the issue with balding? It signifies a decline—old age, impotency, the loss of sex appeal, no? Popular culture teases the middle-aged bald man for his shiny dome, his loss or lack or unbecoming nature. Now why would that matter to a twenty-three-year-old? I always imagined I would be most dateable in my late twenties and early thirties. My zenith of confidence, critical thinking and empathy all coming to a head. That’s when my parents met, that’s how old the people playing twenty somethings on TV really are, right? The ones making life happen, having incredible Friends, great jobs, exciting dating adventures in the city. But if you’re ugly (ie. Bald)? You’re not a love interest. The only sexy tv bald guy I remember was on Insecure and he didn’t get the girl, you know who did? The guy with the great fade.

When I noticed my patch, I wanted to fight it. Turkish implants? I couldn’t afford the procedure, let alone the flight there. A daily pill or topical solution? Paying my hair to clock into work seemed wrong, but life is labor so maybe there’s something in the solution. Let’s try it. Not only does rubbing some foam on your dry head feel silly, but a scan of the strange words, long and scientific and with no disclaimer describing which I should be scared of made me think there might be something in the solution. So what are the side effects? A three percent chance of developing a heart murmur? A ten percent chance of decreased libido, erectile disfunction, or ejaculation problems (a disturbingly vague side effect that I don’t want to begin to explore)? Not exactly an inspiring team to join. I’d like to avoid open heart surgery if possible, and the whole sex appeal thing was rearing its ugly head again. So I dropped it and took some time to examine my head.

The balding pattern I inherited looks like Custer’s last stand but with less violence and racist imperialism. The little tuft on my skull ridge is completely surrounded. The receding widows peak, thinning crown and disappearing paths that connect them, one on each side, have left a sorry looking nest on top. Perhaps I should treat it like Custer. Perhaps the true destiny of this man’s hair is to root against those roots as age and genetics slowly surround and take them out, one by one, leaving what’s always been underneath in peace.

Just like the ugly parts of American history, this is something I’ve inherited. It’s genetic, passed down through my mother’s side. This, my grandfather’s hairline, is a family heirloom. Not that I could sell this antique, but it’s generally priceless, no? This is a connection to a dear family member, and one that I never met. How better to connect with him than knowing that at some point we both looked in the mirror and thought “fuck, really? Already? Fuck this. Guess I’ll put a hat on.”

So what does it mean to accept it? Cutting my hair short? Realizing I’ll be a bald dad? Knowing I’ll have to wonder about toupees every now and then? It’s not like I won’t find a partner. That whole business is about accepting each other for who you are, and nobody’s perfect. There are plenty of handsome, famous bald men out there: Dwayne the Rock Johnson, Mr. Clean, The Michelin Man. All actors or models, public facing figures whose chrome domes shine and so do their muscles. Wait, they all have rippling muscles. Maybe I’ll start lifting weights. Who needs a wig when you’ve got biceps, right?

Wait wait wait, you say, that’s not accepting it! But hey, what am I going to do? Accept that not everything can be perfect? That balding really isn’t that big of a deal? That my confidence should come from somewhere internal? I’m in my early twenties. I’m in my EARLY TWENTIES. I still think driving is fun and Olivia Rodrigo could fall in love with me at a meet-cute in an ice cream shop. Okay, fine, I’ll also try talking about this with my friends. And therapist if I have one. Journaling. Meditating. Engaging in world events outside of myself. Seeing there are actual problems in the world and that smelling nice and keeping my apartment clean can do just as much as a full head of hair. Ok? Fine! I’ll accept it! It’s okay that I’m balding! Alright? It’s exciting to age and I’ll make it work for me and things could be worse and I’m not actually ugly and old and decrepit and those aren’t bad things either! Okay? What do you want me to do next? Realize I’m not an island and can’t do everything on my own? Build community? An equitable future? Stop climate change? Get money out of politics? Become a kind and loving father and husband? Call home every now and then? Yeah? Okay, fine! I’ll do it! And I’ll do it bald! But I can’t do it alone. So you’re gonna have to get over whatever stupid shit you worry about too, okay? Weird nose or uneven boobs or whatever. Okay? Sisters not twins, right? Bald is beautiful, yeah? Deal? Deal??

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Eli D’Albora is a writer from Seattle, WA. His work has appeared in Bricolage, The Bookends Review and North by Northeast Literary Magazine. He recently lost his job so if you’re looking to hire someone in Brooklyn, New York he’s got enthusiasm, organizational skills, grit, know-how and a keen eye for detail. Elidalbora@gmail.com