I like my hair. No, scratch that–I love my hair. It’s been a constant companion for my entire life. When I’m cold, it warms me, much like beer. When I run, it bounces up and down gently, patting me on the head, reminding me that someone’s there to cheer me on. It gives the wimminfolk something to grab onto. Sometimes it finds its way onto a bar of soap, and that’s a bit icky. Sometimes it gets caught on the back of my tounge, and I have to do an awkward near-vomit-inducing tonguescraping dance that certainly causes my eyes to tear. But hair makes me feel sexy, also much like beer.
Such is my love for hair. And beer.
I’m entertaining a lot of options. I’ve already started compensating–I go to the gym every day, because bald just doesn’t look right to me unless you’re set like Mr. Clean. I wouldn’t mind looking like Patrick Stewart–I could dig looking like Xavier. Did you know my friend’s little sister has every episode of “Star Trek: TNG” on tape in her closet, arranged in order of how hot Patrick Stewart was in each episode? It’s true.
Goodbye, dear friend. My balding spot is not the graceful aging of a nice late 30s early 40s gentleman who develops the tasteful “horseshoe” or “halo” you see on respected scholars and clergymen. No, my 'do comes at a very inopportune time. I’m twenty-one. Jebus. I’m Montgomery Burns.
But I won’t give in. I will bring sexy back. Here is where I need opinions that have no vested opinion in lying to me. How bald is bald enough to shave that bad boy off?
Here I am, doing the “Hooray for Hair” dance.
Here is my well-quaffed 'do, flapping gently in the breeze, no clearer sign of manly manliness than a peacock’s tail in a sunlit glade.
Heer I am, “busting a move”, as it were, when my condition presents itself to the camera. Ouch, my pride!
Am I to the point of “stop pretending, just shave it and get it over with”? How buff need I be to not look like the Pillsburry Doughboy? When I do shave it, what sort of fun things should I do with it that I never have?