The Bald and the Beautiful

OK, so you’re wondering why I don’t have very much hair on my head, so I’m going to tell you. Take some notes; there’ll be a quiz.

It all started a couple months ago, when I was a freshman at Brigham Young University, in Utah. I had known for quite some time that my hair never behaved properly. No matter what I did to it, it would either hang down in my face, or else point straight out, in the traditional Cartoon-Character-Sticking-His-Finger-in-an-Electrical-Outlet fashion. Either way, it did not please me.

And then came that fateful April night in Provo, Utah, when I needed a haircut. I lived in the dorms, and there was a guy named Hamilton on the floor above mine who allegedly cut hair. (TIP #1: Do not let a guy who lives in a college dorm cut your hair. College dorm residents are among the most irresponsible creatures on earth, right below vultures.) (TIP #2: Especially if this person’s name is “Hamilton.”) I was a little hesitant at first, until I found out that not only would Hamilton cut my hair, but he would even do it for free! (TIP #3: Do not let someone cut your hair for free.) So I went up and asked him to cut my hair.

We moved a chair into the bathroom (TIP #4: Do not get your hair cut in a bathroom), and he started clipping away. I should mention that Hamilton was not wearing a shirt or shoes when he cut my hair. He was, however, wearing a Band-Aid on his finger, because he had cut himself with the scissors while cutting the last person’s hair. (TIP #5: If a person is only partially dressed, and has recently inflicted a wound upon himself with the very instrument that he intends to use on and near your head, do not let that person cut your hair.)

When he was all done, there was a lot of hair on the floor, and considerably less hair on my head. Normally, this is the way things are supposed to be, but in this particular instance I soon wished that some of the hair on the floor had been left where it was, because there were now several areas of my head that did not have as much hair as the areas immediately adjacent. To put it bluntly, it looked like Hamilton had cut my hair with his eyes closed, which certainly would have explained the aforementioned finger injury left over from his previous victim. I am very glad for his sake, and for the sake of his already-injured finger, that he did not attempt to charge me any money.

I left discouraged, knowing that once again, I had a bad haircut. I resigned myself to the fact that I was always going to have bad haircuts, and that I simply had bad hair. But then a thought dawned on me: Why not shave my head and start all over again! Yes! When I have hair and look stupid, I always feel like it’s my fault for not handling it properly. But if I don’t have any hair and I look stupid, there’s nothing I can do about it! So I shaved my head.

I didn’t say it was a good story.

I had a mugshot that accompanied my column, and it was obvious from looking at it that I had shaved my head recently. That, coupled with the fact that I thought it was an amusing anecdote, prompted me to write this. Or maybe that was self-explanatory.