If, in the snap of a finger, you could change just one particular thing about yourself, do you know what it would be? Most of us are not like “The Fonz” on Happy Days, who, when approaching the mirror to comb his hair, takes one look at his reflection and realizes there is no improving on perfect. In fact, we humans spend most of our lives examining the minute details of our physical features, and are constantly plagued by the realization that we are too fat, too skinny; our nose is too big, too small; our eyes are not close enough together, or too far apart. Millions, perhaps billions of dollars are spent each year on cosmetic surgery. Some girl is getting a boob job, some guy is getting a chin enhancement. What a loss to that lucrative industry was, the unfortunate passing of Michael Jackson, not to mention to the musical world.
Actual Microscopic Close-Up of My Head
For me, it has always been hair. Hair, you say? Yes, for those of you who are not familiar with me, I am follically challenged. At least on the top of my head. I can grow facial hair with the best of them, and the little devils seem to crop up in the most unusual places all over my body, but up on top of my cranium it is a sparse and vast wilderness. Though a few hairs have managed, out of shear stubbornness, to hold onto the land their fathers bequeathed them, it is generally an abandoned acreage with little vegetation.
It all started way back when I was 19 years old. Something was wrong upstairs. My hair was unhealthy. It had always been thin, but I painstakingly quaffed it into submission each day, and made the most of what God Gave me. But everyone knows that God giveth, and God taketh away. Well, He had certainly begun to taketh away what He gaveth me in that department. I went to a dermatologist to see what advice the medical profession could offer. When the doctor walked into the office, I took one look at that 30-something man, whose own hair seemed to be migrating south, and I immediately knew that medicine was not going to comfort me in my hour of need.
Time passed, and along with it, many precious hairs, until one day I read an ad for a new solution that purported to grow hair. I ordered it, and used it religiously, just like the regimen prescribed. Within the required time that they guaranteed results, not one new fuzzy tuft had appeared, so I mailed the empty bottles back, got a refund (minus shipping and handling) and reconciled myself to inevitable baldness.
Now, from where I stood, the world offered a few other options: invest in a toupee, or hair plugs. Personally, I did not relish the idea of a foreign object glued to the top of my head, nor did I want to look like a cheap doll with perfect rows of hair tattooing a pattern across my scalp. And I couldn’t afford either of them anyway, so sour grapes to them all.
It was then and there that I decided to go bald gracefully. I combed every last strand as carefully as I could, sprayed it down so it wouldn’t leave the reservation (people with perfect hair have no idea what I’m talking about), and watched as over the years, ruthless time continued to deforest my scalp. This went on for decades, until, one day, my wise wife suggested that I shave it all off and be done with it. I was worried that if I did this, and ever wished to reverse the action, my hair would refuse to grow back at all. So, I contemplated it for a long time before making the plunge. I knew that this was a portal that I would walk through and likely not return from. When I finally did commit myself to this direction, life for me became so much easier (although I have to shave my head every few days to keep things shiny clean). And aside from my head being a bit colder in the winter, a tad hotter in the summer, over-all I like the results.
Still, I dream (literally dream) often that I have a full head of hair. The reoccurring nightmare is that I always awaken to find that, alas, I am bald as a cue-ball. But then, it is by choice, isn’t it(?), which seems to make if alright. It has become a style, a brand. A new area to place post-it notes.
I guess you could say that when life offered me lemons, I painted them green and pretended they were limes.
What is it about yourself that you would change if you could change one thing? Of course, there are many things we can not change. Defects, physical, emotional, psychological, neurological, that will remain with us until we die. I heard about one guy who was exhumed 50 years after his death, and though most of his flesh had rotted away, he still had a chip on his shoulder. I have learned that there are things we can not change.
A few years ago, I was diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome, and there is no elixir available on the market to take that away. It is what it is, and that’s all there is to it. Though I wasn’t aware that I had been afflicted with AS my whole life, still I suffered with the effects of it over the years. When I learned that I had it, I wanted to change it. I wanted to make it go away. I wanted to slather myself with a combination of revolutionary ointments, and be like everybody else. It was too late to change the past, but I wanted to change the future. And similarly to what has transpired with my journey through baldness, I have decided to “go gently into that good night.” Unlike Dylan Thomas, I will not rage. Unless. Of course, you consider this blog a rage. I look at it as an opportunity to “shave my head”, neurologically speaking. A chance for me to boldly stand up and shout to the world that It is okay to be bald, or to have Asperger Syndrome, or to like conservative talk radio. It is a fact of life, a condition with which we must all learn to live.
I don’t have an Aladdin’s Lamp to offer you, and I can’t make the snapping of your finger produce more than an annoying sound, but I can loan you some green paint, if you’ve got some lemons you wish to redecorate.
