A funny has been happening on my Twitter account lately. I’ve been targeted by a couple of wig companies lately.
I have never even flirted with the idea of wearing a wig. The thought has never entered my brain. I am so comfortable with baldness that when my hair grows long enough for a comb, I start to get panicky. I’d rather put on 15 pounds than grow hair. I’ve been bald more than half my life.
I realized I was going bald when I was about 19 the first time I scraped my cranium clean with a bic. When stubble began to appear, I noticed it was a little sparse in regions that were previously in the shadow of my regulation crew cut. I didn’t panic; I began to formulate a plan to search for the woman I would spend my life with. I found the Charming and Beautiful Susan and kidnapped her and forced her to marry me when I was twenty and it wasn’t until I was 23 that she realized “for better or for worse” meant sharing a house with a man that was rapidly losing his hair. The joke’s on her. I was as bald at 29 as I am at 44.
The Charming and Beautiful Susan and I are good with it. I’ll read your tweets, guys. But I won’t be buying a wig anytime soon unless you can hook me up with one of those Rasta-dreadlock numbers. But then I’d have to change my whole wardrobe.