Requiem for my hairline
I am 25, and I am losing my hair. It began a few months ago, but that doesn’t even matter: To be balding is to acknowledge baldness as an inevitability. I still have hair, yes, but it doesn’t feel like my hair anymore. It feels like I borrowed it from some guy who left town. He went back to high school and he is wearing a hat because he is too lazy to brush his stupid, thick hair. I would like to kick that guy in the knee for taking his hair for granted. I would also like to tell him not to freak out when he catches Margaret Cunningham kissing that guy in the Wendy’s parking lot, because she’s going to put on a lot of weight and be forced to work at the mall in a few years.
Back when I had hair, baldness was only a novelty. I found my dad’s Rogaine in the bathroom closet when I was little, and I felt nothing. No sympathy, no fear. I was completely detached. It was just a thing sitting next to the toothpaste. Now I understand the panic he must have felt after he and my mom were divorced and he tried to Look Handsome around new women.
RT @: I need some
I need some
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