Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen.
I’ll likely be bald in the next decade or so.
Already, my hairline has begun the retreat from the front of my scalp to safer ground.
If the common mythology of genetics is to be believed, it’s my mother’s father that best evidences my follicle future. Unfortunately, I only met him once when I was very young and have a swiftly evaporating memory of those moments.
So my hair memories are connected to my father’s family.
Running along this reasoning, things are not looking good.
From time to time, I’ll shave my head because stopping for a haircut seems more troublesome than it’s worth.
On the rare occasion those photos make it to Facebook, my sister Kirstie invariably comments, “You look just like dad.”
And, as much as I love our bald father, I’ve been mocking his baldness since my adolescent boldness made it seem appropriate.
So, I’ll be bald.
That’s my future.
I own that.
I only bring this up because, tonight at dinner, I was reminded of the alternatives.
A dinner party of six took their seats near the window. As they raised their glasses and sang the first verse of “That’s Amoré”, I noted something askew about the hair of one of their party.
Namely, it wasn’t his own.
A kidney transplant, I can defend. A blood transfusion, I’m on board. Want a heart transplant? Sure. I like to grab things.
I get the importance of identity. I get the cultural implications. I get all that.
Taping another person’s hair to my head strikes me as gross.
Not only that, I can’t come to terms with such an obvious denial of who I am.
That man sat at his table, ordered a bottle of wine and an appetizer in a disguise I have to believe was fooling no one.
I must give credit to the others in there party.
Sometimes, I imagine the first day of fake hair. Do people bring it up? Do you? Are we supposed to treat it as though nothing has happened?
“Hey, Larry, that a new suit?”
And Larry soaked it up. He purchased a game of make believe and asked everyone with whom he came into contact to play along.
And they did.
And I looked on.
As much as I love the rat’s nest atop my head, when it’s gone, it’s gone.
I contemplated my future tonight.
It’s not devoid of choices.
It is devoid of attractive choices.
I’ll be faced with a choice in the next 20 years.
Barring tremendous scientific advances, I’ll choose nature.
I’ve chosen it in all other aspects of my life. Why should my head be different?