Thar’s gold on that thar hill

Baldness isn't a physical disability, although it does carry its own set of problems.

As you may know, my cranial condition is what one could consider an extreme case of noggin nudity. So I feel free to expose what I consider to be the bare facts on the subject.

I haven't always been bald. I spent upwards of 20 years underneath a thatch of fine filaments suitable for primping into a pompadour (my first-grade photo was notably pompadourious, not to mention the nice bowtie that Mama clipped onto my collar).

My first two years were precursors of my last 50, as my head hairs were late in maturing. In fact, my father used to call me "Baldy Head" years before my tress divestment. Ironically, his nickname morphed into "Slick" by my intermediate years after I'd learned to coif my locks into the favored style of the '50s — pomps, fender skirts and ducktails.

The Beatles changed all that with their softer, wind-blown, mop-head look. To suit the trend, I lowered my pomp into bangs, stylishly swept to one side. We liked to call it the college look.

It was in college, in fact, that my hair count began to diminish. Family and friends would offer advice as to how to slow down this slippage into slickness, as though it were a disease.

But it was inevitable, thanks to my maternal grandfather, who had passed down his hair genes to me, bypassing my three brothers, who all were blessed(?) with curly mops.

So it was I who had to endure the anything-but-subtle gags, wisecracks and witticisms concerning my lack of head cover. “Hey Lar, cover your head. The glare is blinding me.”

Now that my two older brothers have developed creeping crown clearance, the jokes have subsided. But not that it matters.

As you know, bald has become beautiful. Men of all ages now actually shave their heads — without provocation — in an apparent attempt to blend in with light bulbs.

This, ironically, at a time when the traditional light bulb is falling out of favor.

But the gist of all this is that with my lack of hirsuteness I've been unwilling to spend more than is absolutely necessary in the care of my wrap-around hairs. My hairdressers are cosmetology students who trim my ears and shave my neck for a minimum fee.

Likewise, I've felt it unnecessary to use shampoo, instead washing my entire head with regular soap under the shower.

My wife Ginny once took exception to that, insisting that my pillow is oily because I don't use shampoo. OK, so I took her at her word.

For a couple of weeks, I used her shampoo to cleanse my halo. While doing so, I massaged it across my pate as well.

The first time I shampooed, I noticed that my side hairs had puffed out like a long-haired cat after a spin in the clothes drier. The static electricity was making me look just like Larry — of The Three Stooges.

This threatened to cause me to return to my youth, in one aspect at least. I actually considered using Vitalis or Brylcreem to tame those wild hairs. Ironically, that would have added more oil to my pillow case.

Meanwhile, I’ve had to explain to Ginny that even after shampooing my bald head continues to put out body oil, thus continuing to stain my pillow. 

Despite my lack of hair on top, when my side hairs are allowed to grow out, I still have the wherewithal for fender skirts and ducktails. Growing long sideburns is an option I’ve considered but rejected as appearing as an attempt to lure attention away from my golden dome.

But I do have an ace up my sleeve when it comes to wisecracks about my baldness. Having a shiny pate can be quite practical, you see.

When Ginny is looking for me in a large gathering, she can easily find me by honing in on my gleaming cupola. It’s almost like finding a gold nugget amongst the sediment.