I've been shaving my head for the last dozen years or so. It grew out of a desire to free myself from the early 90's shackles of mousse and hairspray, and anyone who has seen photos of my Big Hair past will no doubt agree that it was a wise decision.
I go to a fabulous, crazy Russian lady in the East Village to get shorn once a week; I probably could do it myself, but my poor eyesight and general lack of coordination would most likely result in my lying in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor.
Anyway, a few months ago, I went an entire four weeks without seeing Regina. My work schedule had exploded, and I had barely a free moment for necessities like martinis, let alone a trek down to the East Village. I wasn't too pleased -- a shaved head that starts to grow out resembles nothing so much as a molting Chia Pet. But I was completely unprepared for the shock that greeted me when I caught a rear view glimpse of my head in the mirror.
My hair was growing out everywhere except the top of my scalp. I had a huge, round bald spot. I think I screamed. If my eyes have ever popped, they did at that moment.
For years, I'd been telling people that I shaved my head simply for convenience's sake, and also because I liked how it looked. (At the risk of sounding immodest, and completely delusional, I'd go pate-to-pate with Yul Brynner any day.) Now, I needed to continue shaving to mask nature's cruel trick. How long had this been going on?
I made an appointment with Regina the very next day, after carefully examining my face for laugh lines and considering Botox. I've never been particularly conscious of age (mine or anyone else's), but I suddenly felt like a desperate housewife.
The shock and horror have dimmed somewhat, but I have yet to fully embrace my destiny. It will be some time before I can stand in front of strangers and say, "My name is Todd, and I am balding."
I can tell you all this much -- I'm never missing a week with Regina again. If I discover my first grey hair, it might be cataclysmic.