(Reading time: 4 mins)
Now don’t get me wrong, if offered the chance to have the luscious locks of my early 20s, I would accept with open arms. No questions asked. Welcome home.
If a wicked witch approached with a bright red apple in hand, promising me the vibrancy and shine of years gone by, I would not need the same coercing as Snow White! I would have many bites, and be happy doing so.
If presented with a blue pill and a red pill. Blue – the story ends, I wake up with a head of hair rivaled only by Mr Beckham himself and believe whatever I want to believe. Red – I stay in wonderland, and see how deep my hairline can go. I’m choosing blue all day long. I’m blue-dah-ba-dee…
At this point in The Matrix film, all the red pill offers is “the truth, nothing more.” And the truth is, while I would much rather have hair – the same old ginger crown as before, straight, static and slicked to one side – to say that I’m enjoying being bald would be a huge understatement.
For as long as I can remember, I have been messing with my hair. In primary school, I had long ginger locks. I’m talking long long. Parted in the middle, tucked behind the ears. I was that kid with the long hair. There’s always one, and it was me.
In secondary school, I don’t think I ever went a day without gel. I set early alarms. I missed the morning bus. I had the long, awkward journeys to school in the passenger seat next to an angry parent. But, most importantly, my hair was standing on edge, and every strand was exactly where it needed to be.
Then came college, and healthy experimentation. The fringe was up, then down. The gel was wet look, then matte. I shaved the back and sides, then just the sides. I got my first fade, and a side parting soon followed. I was studying to be a teacher, and this was it. The balance between stylish weekend student and competent weekday teacher is very fine, and I had perfected it.
Or so I thought.
At first, it was a lot wispier than I remembered, and a good breeze could get the better of me. It seemed to happen almost overnight. In an attempt to combat this, I went HAM. I backcombed, hair-sprayed, blow-dried, set, brushed, and gelled once more into position… only to be undone by the first puff of air as I opened my front door.
This battle raged for probably three, if not four, years. I was well aware of the fact that I was losing follicles on the daily, but I was also trying to do everything in my power to maintain this identity that I had created.
Like I said, I was that kid. My hair meant something to me. In my head, it held some mythical significance. It made me, me. And without it, well, I wouldn’t be the same.
The thing is, and I’ve only just come to terms with it really, but I will always be that kid. That will never change, and no amount of expensive hair product could ever bring me back to the glory days either.
So I bit the bullet during quarantine, accepted my fate, chose to buzz it all off, and the difference is night and day.
Now, I can scratch my head, like really scratch. I can throw on a hoodie and leave, without having to address the downpour of fallen soldiers. I can wear a hat, avoid the dreaded hat hair, and remove it without unveiling a sweaty fivehead.
But the biggest of all, I can walk past a reflective surface without worrying.
No more self-indulging glances or well-placed strokes of a comb. No more light patches to hide. No more strands to fix. No more elevator lighting to avoid. No more being held back by hair that couldn’t wait to leave.
To say that I’m kind of enjoying being bald would be a huge understatement because after a decade or so of managing my molting mane, I’m free.
But if y’all know a guy with blue pills or a wicked witch…
obsession for progression 