Now I’m working with what I’ve got left and I'm happy. Of course, I’m sure there are angrier (balder) men out there who think I’m just being a whiny little balding baby—and I totally sympathize. It’s not that bad. I can still comb it, slather it with goo, and pass off to the world that I have a full head of hair. It’s not awful, but I expect it all will be gone in 5 or 10 years. The revolt on my head has been years in the making and, frankly, I'm relieved the revolution is underway.
So what will happen then, when there’s nothing left? I’d like to lose it with grace and dignity like Bill Murray. No toupees, no plugs, no pills, no graphs. Just me and my shiny dome, trolling for other bald-headed individuals to high-five. We’ll solemnly nod at each other on the streets and spend Sunday afternoons in damp basements talking about Jude Law and Jason Statham—they went bald gracefully, and we can do it too! Then we’ll cheer, hold hands, cry, drink coffee, eat donuts, maybe start a fight club?