One for the Road: The bald truth

AS far back as I can mind, I have seen a foretelling of my future reflected in the shining skulls of the men around me.

With no shortage of hairless heads on either side of the family, I have long assumed, usually with a kind of c’est la vie shrug, that baldness was just part of my destiny.

Which was fine; until, about six months ago, when I began to notice that destiny had come a-calling…

See, back when I was still the ungrateful owner of a full head of luxuriant locks, I would sometimes contemplate my follicular fate, turning it over in my head – but only as a kind of abstract exercise.

With the arrogance of one who wasn’t showing even the slightest incipient sign of androgenetic alopecia, better known as male pattern baldness, I would ponder the prospect of my future hair-loss with the cool dispassion of a peace-time president playing a hypothetical war game with his generals.

So when I imagined – or, indeed, was asked – how I would react when I started to go a bit light on the top, I never failed to answer with the quixotic ease of one whose words are of no immediate consequence.

“If I survive to see the day my hair starts to go,” I’d say with absolute sincerity, “I’ll count myself luckier than all those young men who were denied the privilege of living long enough to see such a day.”

I know; noble sentiments, right? And here’s the most humiliating part: Not only did I believe my own bunkum, but I actually had the audacity to take pride in it.

By merely uttering these fine words, I felt like I had demonstrated all the fearlessness, self-assertion and moral fortitude of a young Sinéad O’Connor.

Looking back, I can see now that my attitude stunk of the same noxious self-assurance you get from those ridiculous people you sometimes come across who, while in rude health, claim that they will not weep upon their deathbed, but instead will die with dignity and acceptance, perhaps even offering a few final words of calm conciliation to the crescent of heartbroken family and friends that will, no doubt, have gathered by their bedside.

The point is, talk is cheap – as I found out one day last year when both my scalp and hubris were simultaneously revealed by the unforgiving bathroom light.

Well, let’s just say that my reaction wasn’t pretty. I certainly didn’t handle the situation with the equanimity that I always imagined I would.

In fact, instead of purchasing some perspective by thinking of others less fortunate than myself, I cupped my hands around the top of my forehead, dragged my hair from face, and stared silently at the old baldy man looking back at me.

I fell into a malaise of neurosis, vanity and terror.

“Not so smart now, are ye?” jibed my conscience, forcing me to recall all those times I said I’d have no problem ageing gracefully.

Since then, I’ve been wrestling with the question of what to do.

As far as I have been able to tell, there are three options for the balding man in 2025:

Option one: Pretend it’s not happening and cling on until the last strand falls out. Option two: Turkish hair transplant. Option three: Accept your genetic fate and, when the time comes, take the razor to it

Well, the other day, on the eve of my 28th birthday, I decided to confront the reality of my hair loss all-too head-on, just to prove to myself that it really is no big deal.

Thankfully, according to the kind words of my loving, supportive (and therefore not-all-that-trustworthy) family, I’ve a ‘good shape of a scone’, which is about as much as any newly bald man can ask for.

For further details, please see picture at the top of the page. Warning: This photograph contains graphic scalp nudity that some readers may find upsetting/disturbing/arousing/inspiring.