Dad of All Trades, Master of None

Domesticated, Not Demasculinized

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Posts Tagged ‘modern male’

I watched a man shave his balls …

Posted by doatmon on September 14, 2009

Okay, not really.  But made for a fun subject didn’t it?

That’s from a Patton Oswalt stand-up bit…hilarious stuff.  Can’t be written.  All about timing.

So there was no manscaping voyeurism going on, but there was some shaving.

I shaved my head.

It’s a move I have been contemplating ever since I realized that it wasn’t that I was dipping my neck a different way every morning.  It wasn’t the angle.  My forehead really was getting bigger.

I’m not a real vain’s hard to be vain when you look like a cross between Doogie Howser, MD and a large bowl of flesh-colored jell-o.  But seeing pictures time-lapse my hair loss has been getting harder and harder.

Giving my girls a bath at night, I would consistently push what was left of my “bangs” up and envision myself with the proverbial chrome dome.  And I kind of liked it.

But I couldn’t really do it, could I?


Honestly, it was the pictures of myself at our vow renewal this summer that finally pushed me over the edge.  I literally had hair on only half my head.  I looked ridiculous.  Can you imagine a hairless cat with hair on his back half?  Yeah.  It looked that ridiculous.

So I began growing a beard.  That was step one.  Facial hair.  I went a little crazy.  It grew and grew.  It was approaching Chia proportions when I finally went in to get my head shaved.  Why I scheduled it the morning of the OSU-USC game, I have no idea.  Maybe somewhere in the deep recesses of my muddled brain I felt like if I took a desperate step, the Buckeyes might take one too.  You know.  Like beating a top-10 team.

Whatever the reason, I abandoned the barber-follicle relationship I have been fostering for well over half of my life and booked an appointment at “Modern Male.” No.  Really.  I did.  The place appears to be everything I’m not.  Hip.  Trendy.  Effeminate.  The triumverate of male salons.  But if I was going to shave my head and artistically manicure my facial hair, I wanted an expert.  And in the absence of an expert, I’ll just over-pay for someone as IF they were an expert.

And so I did.

They were actually great with me and they even had ESPN on.  I don’t know what I expected.  Project Runway perhaps.  Stereotypical, I know, but get over it.

In 1.5 hours, I walked out with a goatee and, well, that’s about it.

On the ridiculously long drive back to home-base, I have to admit I hit all the cliches.  I looked at myself routinely in the rearview mirror.  I rolled down the window to feel the smog-ridden wind on my shorn scalp.  I shed a tear for the wispy, straw-like hairs that had tried unsuccessfully to creep down my forehead.  Larry and Steve…I will miss you.

I was actually kind of a wreck over the whole thing.

At least my family was supportive.  My wife turned whiter than my “new” scalp.  French Fry actually screamed and begged Coke not to leave me alone with her while getting the mail.  And Chicken Nugget woke up from her nap long enough to laugh.  And laugh.  And laugh herself back to sleep.

So I had their support going for me which was nice.

My parents, grandmother and Starbucks barista were equally “supportive.”  As was my mother-in-law who expressed her feelings on my decision in conjunction with her feelings on my decision to stay home with the kids.  “Well, I suppose men who are in stressful and strange situations do radical things.”

But guess what.  I actually like it.  I really do.  I like that I don’t have to worry about hair product.  Or bedhead.  Or a receding hairline.  Or ANY hairline for that matter.  I like the goatee.  I like the thought of opening the door to my daughter’s dates and have them do a double-take.

And I have to say.  It’s not really all that radical, people.  Everywhere I look, the bald mafia is representing.  So there.  It’s the new me.

I’m not going to, as Chicken Nugget requested, put my hair back on.

Then again, I probably won’t be finding myself in a Patton Oswalt skit like the subject line.  That might require a return trip to Modern Male.  Or the emergency room.  Either one would render me a eunach once and for all.


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