At Least I'll Never Do This

· bodega

I can’t say I’m not vain and that I haven’t fretted over the years about my looks and especially about my receding hairline. I’d love to be able to say that I could care less but it’s not true. Sure, I’m no psycho about it. I’m more of a stoic. And when a good friend confided to me that his mother had put him on rogaine the moment she saw that he might be starting to lose some hair, I have to admit that I began to regard him almost as a toupee-wearer.
I’m not sure why, but suddenly his boyish mop seemed to me to be more of a fraud.
He was telling me this, in confidence, only because he had noticed how short I had started to wear my hair (it’s gotten to the point where it can look really bad, plastered down almost, if I let it get much longer; part of the problem is that my hair is not just thin on top but also very fine in general; can you tell that I’ve thought about this more than I’d like to pretend?).
In my 20s, it was cool enough to be like Jack Nicholson, boldly sweep the hair back from the forehead and show off that widow’s peak. It sure beat the dread combover, which I am sure men almost always slide into down a slippery slope that probably starts off innocently enough. Now even the brush back approach doesn’t really do it. All the hair stylists want me to brush forward, like Julius Caesar, but this also only seems to work for me right after a very short haircut.
So, short it is. At least I don’t really have to fuss with it anymore.

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