This is most noticeable in the summer when I've retired the stocking cap. While in line at the Ghetto Spur I will catch a glimpse of myself on the screen of the surveillance camera. That lens completely zeroes in on the spot like it's being held by a proud mom, and my naked skull is going to play a clarinet solo during the fifth-grade band concert.
Let's just say that if I ever decide to lift a cheddar-wurst from the Ghetto Spur, I'll be in the clear. Those blue shirts will be combing the hillside looking for a perp with scraggly hair cinched like a hula skirt around a globe of blueish-white skin. (Consider this your warning, Ron Jeremy).
Cutting it short doesn't give it volume, it just makes me look more like my mom. (Not a bad thing, per se, but you show me someone who wants to look like their mom, and I'll show you a guy who just wants to cram his fat feet into a pair of size 6 Jimmy Choos). I can't grow it long, because it hangs in stringy wisps. Like, if you parted this fringe, you would find a handful of 20-year-olds lounging on a velvet couch, sharing a hooka and performing spoken word poetry.
I talked about this with the guy who cuts my hair. He told me to try Rogaine. In my mind, I cannot separate Rogaine from those infomercials for a product that is essentially spray paint. (Which also brings to mind the vintage Ken doll I had growing up. The old-school Lothario had a short velvety down pasted to his soft head. As he aged, spots were rubbed smooth, but eventually filled in with a few strokes from a black Sharpie).
One of my friends told me that if I used Rogaine, I'd maybe have a heart attack and die. She told me to try Nioxin, which I got today. It is supposed to keep you from losing hair, and make it more healthy. It smells like breath freshener for the head, so even if it doesn't work, the tingling will make me think it is. The girl who sold it to me had a thick mass of hair, and she gave it glowing reviews.
"Do you use it?" I asked her. Admittedly, hopeful she would show me a "before" photo where her head looked like a scorched and vacant lot.
"Pssshhh, no," she said. "I don't really have to."
Thank God, I thought. She looked like Ms. Texas.
So now I've got that going on. Just me, sitting around, watching my hair not fall out.
If you think I'm not going to put this in my arm pits, you aren't paying attention. By the Fourth of July, I hope to look like I have Crystal Gayle in a headlock.