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| Baldness allows righteous smugness, even to styrofoam. (credits) |
And, this is a good thing.
When I was 17, I was harboring a curly mane so rebounding and silk-smooth that Shirley Temple could have sued me over it, and won. Mind you, not poodle curly -which is good, since the only good way to dry up a poodle is in a microwave, and I don't really fit - not affro either, but springy curls reflecting lights in all shades from deep brown to dark copper.
I could push a pen inside of that head jungle of mine; it would stay there, warm and safe, for the next half hour I would spend untangling it. Now the only way to make anything stick there involves either a lot of alcohol, a lot of pain, or both.
My Teflon head is the result of a promise I made to myself -and kept: Thou shall not compromise with male pattern baldness.
Let me explain.
Have you ever seen someone with missing teeth brush the remaining ones aside so they fill the gaping holes in-between?
Now, put aside the disturbing mental image I have intentionally put in your head, and ask yourself: "If people don't do that with their teeth, why the coiting hell would they do it with their hair?"
Yes yes, people don't usually pull out their remaining teeth either, but that's because, contrarily to toupees, the majority of available dentures aren't made entirely of seaweed and hobbit butt-hairs (another interesting picture for our readers with a good visual imagination, you're welcome).
All of this to say: I fucking hate comb-overs.
Comb-overs, though, are Andre-Fulbert's best friend.
Andre-Fulbert is a French accountant. He works half time in the windowless basement of a round-the-clock sex shop. He often deliberately inputs numbers with typos in it to delete digits he imagines alive and screaming for mercy. On his way back home, he usually takes a 15 minute breaks at the terrace of a bistro where he withstands verbal abuse from a old prostitute while drinking rancid coffee. Back home, he gets mauled by his goldfish and ignored by his dog, a hemiplegic terrier born before the first republic. He goes to the bathroom hoping to soothe his bowels, corroded by years of 15 minutes coffee and old whore talks, and after his fruitless effort drowned in a storm of weapon grade gases, he washes the greasy sweat off his face while staring in the mirror.
What he sees is the pride of his crown, atop his round head and his double chin. The reported, brushed aside crown of low self esteem. He sees the compensation for years of frustrated routine and an overly shy set of genitals.
Had Andre-Fulbert taken the right decision, wearing his balls on his shiny head in the fashion of all real men, turning the disaster of aging into a silvery chance of looking like a confident, masculine alter ego, ready to kick Bruce Willis in the shins and gobble Sean Connery like a raw egg, he would have come home to the moans of Thalia, Calliope and Erato welcoming him in a rapture while his pet liger diligently deposed at his feet the bleeding body of Cernunnos. He would have ignored it all to go shave and perfect the patina of his cranium, and then have a steak, because that's what real men do.
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| Kneel before Cernunnos, the Celtic Deer Deity. Also, don't let him find me again. I'm begging you. (Source) |
Alas, as proven by a fortnight spent running in fear, naked in the woods, and three fractured ribs, that bitch Cernunnos is still very well alive. Andre-Fulbert is long dead, though, choked by his own tears while crying himself to sleep.
Godspeed, Fulb', godspeed.
Bald on the forehead, bald between the ears, polka dot bald all around the world, take action and sandpaper, time has come for our testosterone filled pride to flood the world with sebum powered incandescence!
More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page
The Bald Paradigm (Why I fucking hate comb-overs) by Danny hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
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