When it comes to the hair on a man’s head, no man is more envied than the one that has a full, thick head of hair. Oh yes, women just love to run their delicate fingers through those follicles, don’t they! And it reminds me of a time when I used to have a thick head of hair. In high school, I jumped on the shaggy haired bandwagon and let my usual closely cut hair grow out a bit, going for a more relaxed and ruffled look. My hair turned out to be thick, dark and curly. Cocoa colored curls ran down my scalp and women loved it. I loved that women loved it. And then something tragic happened: college. Yes, that hair that used to be so thick and luxurious soon became thin and lifeless. I attribute my receding ringlets to the immense stress I dealt with while in college but I suppose the blame wouldn’t be complete unless I also pointed the finger at family. I don’t know the entire story about balding and heredity. I’ve heard it comes from your father’s side, your mother’s side and even a combination of both. Either way it goes, I got the short, split end of the genetic stick.
I remember cutting off all of my hair one summer just to keep cool in the sweltering southern heat. When I tried to grow it back the following winter, I realized it wasn’t coming in as quickly or as thickly as it used to. The hair appeared finer, duller. One day, with a lump in my throat, I grabbed a hand mirror and checked the crown of my head with the bathroom mirror. I was horrified at the sight before me. I saw scalp. And I’m not just talking about where the hair was parted thanks to my ever-troublesome cowlick. There was some definite thinning. After witnessing the clearing of my crown, things only got worse. At one point, I even had a hairstylist say to me, “I’m not going to cut your hair in the front right here because, well, you have a receding hairline so we’ll just leave this to cover that up, mmkay?” Ouch. She said it in a snotty manner, too. I knew I was going bald in the back but never really paid any attention to the front. Naturally, I had to confirm the deforestation of my forehead after leaving the salon. I went to my mirror in my room, lifted up my hair and sure enough, the hairline that used to run straight across my head was now wavering and wandering at each end to find the crown of my noggin. As much as I’ve had self-esteem issues, battled my weight and always felt like an overall fugly fellow, it only furthered my frustrations knowing that I was seeing the first signs of baldness. And at twenty-three, no less. To combat my thinning hair, I began taking supplements that promised to promote hair growth and even switched to shampoos that proclaimed to reduce hair loss. I even considered Rogaine at one point. Picture me in Rite-Aid having a staring contest with that blue box. I never did purchase any because, frankly, I wasn’t ready to take that step, to admit that I was that bad off. Not yet, anyway. Not only was I dealing with the loss of the hair on my head but I have also struggled with the fact that the hair on my face is also lacking.
During my first year of college, I roomed with a hardcore pogonophile who frequently brought up the subject of beards. I remember instances in which we’d walk to class together and he’d point out the guys walking by us that had what he considered cool beards or other guys who had “pussy” beards, as he called them: the patchy, barely there kind of facial hair that looked like a fourteen-year-old face planted himself into the dirt. He constantly trimmed his facial hair to stubble length and then grew it out again. To me, I think he took pride in the speed at which he could grow a full beard and constantly pleasured himself by proving how fast he could grow it over and over again. It made him feel manly. Before we left for Christmas vacation, he told me he wasn’t going to trim his beard at all the entire time we were gone. When school started back again in January, I was met by Grizzly Adams. He looked creepier than usual, especially when he stroked it and smiled at me. Ugh. And after several weeks of forcing me to sleep with one eye open, he shaved everything off except for the bush above his lip. He then used my hair wax to fashion himself a greasy handlebar mustache. He thought it was awesome but it was, in actuality, sleazy. One time, he even suggested we have a beard off, a contest consisting of rules that I’m still unclear of. I assumed it was to see who could grow a beard the fastest or maybe who could grow the best looking beard. I politely declined, partly because I thought it was stupid and partly because I didn’t want him to know I was actually afraid all I’d be able to produce was a “pussy” beard.
You see, ever since I started shaving, I just always have. Up until the point my roommate suggested our chin tuft tug of war, I had never allowed my facial hair to grow because I was never sure of what the end result would be. I started shaving later in my adolescence, in my late teens I think, and even then a quick stroke with the razor and I was good for a few days. When I would go a few days without shaving and some hair did start to sprout, it was less than impressive. Instead of a five o’clock shadow, I looked like I had broken out into a bounty of blackheads. Those were signs to me that I probably wouldn’t be able to grow and/or pull off a decent beard. Besides, even if I was able to sport a significant ‘stache, I wasn’t looking forward to that awkward transition period between clean shave and full beard, much the way it is when you go through that weird phase when trying to grow out the hair on your head. Yet, I still thought about it and wondered how it would change my appearance. It was only after graduating from college that I seized the opportunity to find out what kind of manly fuzz my face could muster.
Since I no longer went to school and had no job, I realized that no one had to see me for a while so I decided to be a hairy hermit and try to facilitate some facial growth. It didn’t work out so well. Turns out, the hair on my face comes out pretty sparsely. I gave it about a month, I think, of not shaving before I had to rescind and reach for the razor. I was hoping that the longer the hair got, the thicker it would appear and maybe kind of fill out but it never did. The beard never got full, only long and scraggly. I looked pretty bad. Plus, I didn’t like the way it felt. It was itchy and hurt when I put my face on my pillow. I don’t see how guys with beards can stand it. I became frustrated with my facial hair and decided it wasn’t worth the ridiculous look and irritating discomfort. That night, I had the best shave of my life and my face felt and looked much better for it.
So, here I am, unable to grow a beard and balding. I fear by the time I’m thirty, I’ll end up having more hair on my back than my head. I have to be honest, I feel a little bit cheated. While girls can play with the hair on their heads, guys can change around the look of the hair on their faces, almost like a toy atop their lips. Not for me. I can go smooth and maybe get away with a couple of days worth of stubble but that’s about the extent of the acceptability of my facial fuzz. I almost don’t feel like a whole man, unable to do the one thing that most men can do. I know I’m not in the minority here. It’s probably more common than I realize, as everyone’s hair growth is varied but I still think it sucks. Maybe I’m just over thinking this whole situation. Really, why is hair such a big deal in the first place? Whether you have a lot or a little of it, whether you gain it or lose it and whatever you decide to do with what you have, what does it matter? I suppose it all comes down to aesthetics. And in this day and age, as far as looks are concerned, guys are put under just as much pressure to pluck as the ladies. In the end, it’s nature that’s going to decide the state of your hair and you can fight it all the way to the Bosley clinic but if you’re hairy you’re hairy and if you’re bald you’re bald. You can get it lasered off and transplanted on but it’s troublesome and expensive and maybe we’re all better off letting nature run it’s course. Maybe some girls prefer the smooth faced smooth scalped look. Maybe some girls just don’t care. Maybe I’m just a late bloomer. The hair’s there, just waiting for the right time to mature to fuzzy fruition. Or maybe I should just accept my smooth status and think about all the money I’ll save on shampoo and shave gel.
Past:
Present:
Future??
Present:
Future??
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