A modest estimate: I have two years left to live. I mean, really live. I am 26 and God is scalping me alive. My hair is visibly thinning. In the accompanying photo, you can see what I will most likely look like before my 30th birthday. A marked man, I have decided to record my final days of the good ol' hirsute world before I am fully thrust into a shiny purgatory of "that guy we met the other night, you know, the bald one." Like Michael Herr in Dispatches, I'll record the attendant terrors and concomitant neuroses of my horrific new situation. I will, alas, explore whether bald men can contribute meaningfully to society. I'll try to keep a sense of humor along the way, albeit bald men live in the fullest sense of Shakespearean tragedy; even the light at the end of the tunnel mocks them by reflecting off their waxy pates.
(PHOTO: Man scalped alive by Sioux chief, late nineteenth century. Public domain.)
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