My worst fear, realized.

Three fears have haunted me since childhood. I’ve never revealed these to anyone for fear that I would somehow speak them into existence, but recent events have caused rethink my silence. I wouldn’t wish wish any one of the these atrocities on my worst enemy (and yet, I wish all three of them on the creators of Soul Plane, and Rihanna). 

1. Falling down the stairs and cracking all my teeth 

2. Losing a limb in a freak accident 

3. Going bald. 

Until a few months ago, all these fears were merely a product of my own vainglorious neurosis, and for the most part had no basis in reality: I’m pretty well-coordinated (…off the dance floor) so falling down the stairs is unlikely. Back when I was behind the wheel my chances of losing a limb were actually quite high as I am unable to drive and process information at the same time but now that I’m off the road both me and the driving population at large are lot safer. And as for going bald, I’m only 23 so losing my hair this early is quite unlikely. 

…or so I thought. 

I had been under the impression that men don’t start to go bald until they reach their forties. Plus, my father is 60, and he still has all his hair. So I had assumed that my crown and glory would stay with me till the very end. That was, until a few weeks ago I woke up, took my 17 minute morning piss, looked in the mirror and to my utter devastation I noticed that the hair around my temples was receding, rapidly. My hairline had begun making a slow and painful migration back to my ears. 

 

At least he still has his hairline...

 

Face-to-face with my worst fear, I did what any OG would do:  I called in sick to work, went back to my bedroom, put the covers over my head, assumed the fetal position and begin to mourn the loss of, well, everything I knew to sacred and pure in this world. 

When bad things happen to me I find a way to blame other people, regardless of whether or not they had anything to do with it. It’s my healing process: turn ravage into rage. So as I sat in bed, my catharsis began: I blamed my parents for the deficient genes they passed down to me. I blamed Boris Kudjoe and Taye Diggs for making it seem like going bald was cool. I blamed Gillette for sending me those razors on my 18th birthday. I blamed the scientific community for curing polio and yet completely ignoring the much more widespread and debilitating baldness epidemic. I blamed Rogaine for only featuring old, geriatric white men in their ads. I blamed the hair on my chest for not being where it was most needed. I blamed FEMA for not being where it was needed most. I blamed the PLO. I blamed the Taliban. If it came across my mind during my alopecic witch hunt, I blamed it. 

After my rage subsided I shift to the next stage of grief–acceptance. “OK…I’m balding. So how will I deal with this? Maybe I can grow an afro the magnitude of which would distract everyone from the glaring reality of my receding hairline? There are no toupes for black men with short hair, so that won’t work. Maybe I can pencil in my hair, like the Cholas in my high school penciled in their eyebrows? Or what if I don a turban or an oversized yarmulke?” My ideas got progressively more outlandish until I submitted to what was the only logical conclusion: I’d have shave my head bald. 

So in my dramatic Angela Basset, Waiting to Exhale moment, I went to an African barbershop, got in the chair and demanded, “Take it all off. Just shave me bald.” 

The barber must have noticed the crazed look in my eyes. “Everything cool, bruda?” 

“Yeah, everything’s fine. Just shave my head please. Thanks.” I said it as quickly and pleasantly as my mental state would allow but I still came off sounding rather curt. He shot a bewildered glance to the other barbers through the mirror. They responded with shrugs and raised eyebrows. 

He turned on the clippers. I was nervous, but I knew what had to be done. 

The clippers began their descent and right before they landed on my head the barber intervened, “Hey, who cut your hair before?” 

“Some Pakistani guys in the shop down the street.” As soon as I said that everyone in the barbershop began to laugh for some reason.   

“They really messed up your hairline.” 

“No, that’s natural….I’m going bald on the sides.” I murmured. 

“No, you’re not,” he smiled. “Them Pakistanis just cut your hair back too far.”

“No,” I said, annoyed that he continues to poke at the wound that I’m so desperately trying to let scab over. “It’s natural. I just don’t grow hair there anymore.” 

“Here,” he passed me a magnified mirror. “Look at your head.” 

 I took the mirror begrudgingly, knowing that this would be the only thing that would make this fool leave bald enough alone and do his job. 

“Here,” he touched the side of my head to indicate where I should look and when he lifted his finger I saw sprouting hair follicles.     

Still, I was plagued by a certain cognitive dissonance. Even if I did see those small specs of hair, I had already mourned the death of my jet black locks. They were gone and nothing, not even a delusional barber, could bring them back to life. 

In the end, after seeking the second opinion of every other barber and customer in the shop, he convinced me to go without a haircut for two more weeks to see if the hair would grow back. I conceded, not because I believed him but because I had 15 people around me in a circle yelling, “Come on!” “Just try it!” “It’s dem Pakistanis! Why you let them do that to your head?” 

I could not wait for two weeks to come, only so that I could strut back in that in that barbershop, take off my hat, reveal that I was still balding and thus be vindicated. I was going to show them that I knew what I was talking about. But about a week later I woke up, went to the bathroom, washed my face and the process noticed a layer of fuzz growing right in the area where the barber touched. Amazed, but still skeptical I let nature take it’s course…

 

 

 

My after picture. Can ya dig it?

 

 

Only, I have to find another barber because I can’t let them fools know I was wrong. And in the spirit of reciprocity, as soon as Ramadan is over I’ll be taking a stroll up to the Pakistani barbershop and scalping my old incompetent ass barber. It’s only fair. After all, it’s only hair.

TG