 |
|
Ezy
Reading:
The
7-11 Syndrome |
|
|
Growing
up, I knew it was fairly inevitable that at some point
in my not-too-distant adult future I'd be forced to
come face to face with an inescapable genetic predisposition:
baldness. My Dad was unlucky enough to be pretty much
completely bald by his early-twenties, and even if
the gene for baldness is meant to come from your mother's
family, my grandfather on that side was similarly
stricken by the time he turned twenty-five as well.
Things did not bode well, and so in my teens I did
my best to make sure I grew as large a Greek afro
as good sense and a private boys' high school would
allow (take it from me, those class photos ain't pretty).
 Which
means, really, I should be quite happy about my current
state. In a few month's time I'll be thirty, and for
the last five years my follicles have waged a spirited,
if ultimately fruitless Battle of the Somme-like effort
which has saved me from suffering as early a fate
as my father and grandfather. Yes, inevitably, things
aren't looking good for the troops; we now seem to
be losing more and more brave soldiers on a daily
basis to the pillow and bathroom sink, and supply
lines and reinforcements are starting to be pushed
to their limit. But I've been fortunate enough to
extend by a good half a decade that absolute need
for me as a fully-fledged bald man to start applying
sun-screen in summer or warm hats in winter to my
shiny, barren dome, and that's not a bad thing.
Don't
get me wrong. I'm not an especially vain person, and
I've quite happily accepted my gradual transition
from being pointed out as 'that guy carrying the black
bag' to 'that bald guy over there'. As I said, I've
had a long time with prior knowledge of my fate to
accept what was going to happen. There will be no
comb'overs or appointments with the clinic of 'We
Staple Rat Fur to Your Head' for this guy. I'll leave
the desperate hair measures for desperate ageing 80's
rockers and bad actors looking for a lift in the resume
by appearing in late'night hair clinic testimonials.
 Please
read the following stiffly, with irregular pauses
and intonation, a fixed expression, and half the tail
end of an old gerbil bloodily staple-gunned to your
forehead:
"I tell you, I could not believe the results. Before,
I was fat, ugly and bald. Now, the chicks can't stop
asking me out and wanting to run their hands through
my luxurious tail of hair. And you can only really
see the permanent scarring if you look at my head.
It is amazing! I am ecstatic!"
If
anything, for me, the only significant aspect
of entering baldhood is that it must be one of
the first major signposts in life giving up notice
that you're getting older. That, perhaps, in the
wake of all those folks around you getting married,
having babies and buying homes (and what with
all that hair falling out) perhaps it wouldn't
be such a bad thing to put down that Playstation
for a moment and stop musing about whether or
not Bugs Bunny really was a troubled transsexual
when you should be concentrating on the fact you're
in a meeting with the bank manager and he's saying
that, basically, you're screwed. Then again, Bugs
really did enjoy spending time in women's clothing,
so what's up with that?...
 The
landmark moment in my discovery that baldness
was starting to take hold was what I now like
to call 'the 7-11 syndrome'. Essentially, one
afternoon, while in a 7-11 convenience store,
I was buying a pack of gum and, no doubt distracted
by thoughts of Bugs Bunny's sex life I absently
passed a five-dollar note across the counter.
While waiting for my change I noticed a black
and white security'camera television on a nearby
wall. There, on the screen, were two people from
an overhead angle. One with a healthy head of
hair, the other showing a rather noticeable large
doughnut on that part of his scalp normally covered
with hair. Bemused, I snickered and thought, 'Man,
this cashier is really, really bald.' Problem
was, when I glanced up to get my change, the guy
behind the counter was a Lebanese dude with an
eighteen-inch afro. I had no afro. As panic set
in, I shot back to the television set. Now, studying
things a little more closely, there was a panicked
bald guy on the screen standing opposite a Lebanese
guy with an eighteen-inch afro. I waved my hands.
I was that bald guy. Ashamed, I immediately
used one hand to cover the bald-patch, and the
other to grab my change while I muttered a weak
thank-you and cursed the revelations made finally
and abundantly clear by overhead security cameras.
The 7-11 syndrome was born, though I'm sure it
has 'outed' many a man over the years, whether
they were buying gum at two in the afternoon or
a suspect chicken hero at four in the morning.
So
I should probably be prepared for the fact that,
very soon, people will now have licence to start
calling me things like 'chrome dome' and 'shiner',
and will occasionally drop references to monks
from 'The Name of the Rose' that look like me
(I'm gunning for Christian Slater or Sean Connery
rather than the retarded self-flagellating dude).
Within a few short months I'll join the ranks
of my other bald friends, many of whom were unlucky
enough to be stricken down well before their dating
prime, some as early as their last year or so
of high school (ouch). Out, in the streets, I'll
welcome the secret code and silent nods bald men
no doubt use to communicate with each other, and
I'll believe that there still is a chance for
bald men to score hot chicks so long as Bruce
Willis (not Phil Collins) is keeping the dream
alive.
 So
yes, get over yourself, ye worrying balders and
embrace the change because it's out of your control
anyway, unless you want to spend a foolish amount
of money on what most folks will pick out as a
dead hamster from a mile away. Apparently things
like growing up and embracing adulthood are more
important to get bothered about than losing a
few follicles, and if anything those real worries
of life will likely make sure to kill off the
last hairs left on your head better than genetics
ever could. But enough of all this depressing
chatter about the harsh realities of life for
now. Put on your favourite cap, grab a beer and
turn on the Playstation. It's time to ignore father'time
for just a little bit longer and I'm sure the
bank manager can wait.
Tune
in for the latest edition of Ezy Reading every
Monday.
|
|
