Okay, there it is. I have finally spat out the four letter word. Yes, I am going bald—not Yul Brynner, Telly Savalas, or Jonathan Banks bald, but bald enough. When you can count your individual follicles, then you are bald- plain and simple.

As if it weren’t bad enough that I am losing my body and my brain, now I am losing my hair. Lifelong companion, my hair is deserting me with each passing day. For reasons I cannot comprehend, these disloyal follicles are relocating to such unacceptable places as my nose, ears, and eyebrows. And after all I have done for them—decades of fine grooming.

There was a time long ago when I had a thick head of dark brown hair. Slowly it turned to what my barber called “salt and pepper” and gradually the pepper was totally replaced by the salt.  Now I would be grateful for just some salt, but apparently it is not to be. 

All of a sudden, I have to wear a hat so I don’t get cancer of the scalp or top-of-the head sun burn.  I can no longer rely on my head of hair to protect me from the elements. Rain drops bounce off my scalp as if hitting the pavement.

Shakespeare incorrectly observed, “Vanity thy name is woman.” I am no woman, but I can assure you I am vain about my hair, or in this case, the lack thereof.

I am giving serious thought to becoming an observant Jew.  As a member of the tribe, I will be able to wear a kippah (aka yarmulke or skullcap) which would cover most if not all of my bald spot. 

I have been working at trying to come up with a bright spot about my bald spot, and I think I have found it.  I currently go to Harley, proprietor of a hair salon creatively called “Hair.,” located at the Trancas Country Market.  I am paying a lot when you divide the cost of a haircut by the few hairs I still possess. From now on I intend to save a fortune by going to European Shoe, and when Levon shines my shoes, he can throw in a scalp shine. 

Now I think I know what you are thinking. You are looking at the photo which accompanies this blog/column, and you are saying to yourself, “This guy is not bald.” Well, think of it this way—when you read the obituary of some guy who had just turned 93, and the paper runs his high school photo, you my loyal reader can extrapolate that the photo you see each week is of a younger me. Believe me when I tell you I have no intention of providing The Malibu Times with a more current photo.

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