My clock-radio is locked on Q104.3, New York City’s only classic rock station. The alarm trips, as it has for years, at noon. The main perk of being a freelancer is that I can keep my own hours (not to mention my daily commute is only two steps, the distance from my bed to my desk). On week days I am woken by the mid-day Beatles block: a handful of Fab Four tunes played in seriatim, because, as the station opines, everybody should get to hear John, Paul, George, and Ringo every day. The Beatles used to be one of my favorite bands; but that was before my thinning hair transmogrified my mood into a cantankerous ennui. “Here Comes the Sun”? Go to hell, George Harrison, and take the sun with you; those rays, like a concerted salvo of Spartan arrows, pierce my thin strands and highlight my unsightly glossy dome. Rather than the sun coming, might as well be Jason Voorhees coming with a big machete for all I care; he's bald too, who knows, maybe we'd get along. “Octopus’s Garden”? What is it with you, George? No, I don’t care how happy you say we’d be, I’m not going into the sea with you; don’t you know that guys can’t swim with thinning hair? Looks terrible; especially the Rob Corddry patch that’s clinging above my forehead, it would end up resembling a drowned gerbil. And what’s that you sing, Paul? “Got up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head?” I’d like you to try a day in this life, you mop-headed Blue Meanie. In fact, today, I might remain abed, bald, hiding under the covers. I’d be a bald-faced liar if I said I didn't feel just like Eleanor Rigby.
I’ve stopped enjoying the things I used to love. It’s time to see Dr. Roberts about some pills. No, not amphetamines or LSD or marijuana or whatever else the Beatles perchance were implying. Not this time. I’m talking Propecia.
(Art by Modern Bald Man.)
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