COLUMN: Laugh it up hairball

I have sadly come to the realization that I will never get my hair back. What started out as a minor receding hairline has turned into a never-ending retreat to the back of my head. One day I will wake up, look in the mirror and blind myself from the light bouncing off my cue-ball head. This will be the day I learn the true purpose of the BIC razor. It’s not so much that I’m upset that I’m losing my hair as I am about the fact that it makes it difficult to do anything with my hair. My widow’s peak is getting deep and now it’s starting to move inside, creating an island in front, where I usually flip up my hair. I give it another year or two before I have an Australia on the world map of my head. This free-floating island will look ridiculous and I’m sure the lone hair stranded there will start screaming hysterically, “Wilson! Come back Wilson.” Even if this happens, I’ll be OK. I’ve learned that I’m not actually losing my hair, it’s only migrating. Like geese. It’s actually part of the whole human existence. The ice ages came, so the cavemen moved. The Egyptians were tyrants, so Moses led the children of Israel out of there. The French moved in, so the Roman empire strangled itself so they wouldn’t have to deal with them. As you can see, this is quite natural. One thing moves in and another has to take a bow. But what’s moved in to take over my naturally gorgeous hair? Answer: puberty. Well, not really puberty, but the result of it. I’ve long since been through the whole puberty ordeal – with minimal embarrassment – but this is where it all started. One morning while sitting in English class, I noticed a little fuzzy hair on my chin. At the time I was elated, although facial hair at age 10 is a little embarrassing. I had bragging rites on every other male my age: I was growing facial hair. Sure it was a wispy white hair about a quarter of an inch long, but it was still facial hair. I had visions of myself donning a ZZ Top beard and then tying it in thick braids like a viking warrior while carrying a battle ax. Then the girl next to me whacked me upside the head for shaking my head back and forth with my imaginary viking dreads and blocking her view of the much more attractive boy sitting in front of me. Had I been smarter at the time, I would have realized this was the beginning of the end. Sure I was able to grow facial hair quickly. Sure I automatically looked 5-10 years older than I really was. Sure I looked like a mug shot off America’s Most Wanted, but I didn’t know that 10 years later, I would be looking more like Dilbert than that ZZ Top warrior viking I had envisioned. You see, facial hair and top hair cannot exist in the same time and place for long. You may get away with it for a few years, but eventually your time comes to a close and you are left with a thick goatee but nothing up top to back you up. The hair followed the natural course of human development and migrated. It doesn’t stop there. Ever noticed how men with beards are pretty much hairy everywhere else too? Migration. So here I am with this manly, hairy body, looking more like the missing link than a body builder, sans hair up top I should rightfully retain. But it’s not all bad. In fact, there are a great many benefits to being able to grow facial hair. 1. I’m not all that old and sometimes people don’t take me seriously because of my age, even if I have experience and money. OK, that’s a lie, I never have money. That all changed once I grew my goatee. All of a sudden I look 10 years older than I really am and nobody questions me. I go to get my car fixed and walk confidently to the desk and tell them what I need. They don’t hesitate or question me at all. Instead, they get right to work and fix my car as quickly as possible. When did that before I had a goatee, the mechanics looked at me with that greedy look vultures have, that says, “I can’t wait to catch this sucker, but the question is, how much does he have on him? Can he actually pay?” 2. A goatee makes me look tougher than I am. I’m a thick, well-built man and normally people don’t mess with me or pick fights. But with a goatee, this is even more accentuated. A goatee literally screams, “I am strong, don’t mess with me.” 3. All the women flock to men with facial hair. OK, caught me again. The majority of women seem to have an aversion to facial hair like the Amish to electricity. But not my wife, she loves my goatee. No, seriously, she doesn’t love me, she loves my goatee. About a month ago, I came home from church and shaved my goatee. It was getting a little out of control and I wanted to give my face a chance to breathe again. As I shaved off the goatee in the traditional segments – horseshoe to nappy mustache to Hitler-stache – she leaned against the doorway bawling hysterically and looked at me like I had just voted Sanjaya off American Idol and simultaneously committed the unpardonable sin by transforming myself from her personal Jack Black to Lance Bass. (I had to shower after writing that.) When I finished the deed, I barely recognized myself. In one act I had taken years off my life, but I didn’t realize I had also taken about a half trillion attraction points away from myself. My wife walked up to me, rubbed her hands on my ridiculously smooth face and said, “Why’d you shave? You don’t look good anymore.” Talk about shooting a man’s horse. The moral of the story? Well, if there’s any moral to facial hair – which I doubt – it’s that while I may be getting fat and going bald, as long as I keep that patch of hair on my chin, I’ll always have a wife that’s attracted to me.

Seth Hawkins is a senior majoring in public relations. Questions and comments on why growing a curly, French mustache is a crime against humanity can be sent to him at seth.h@aggiemail.usu.edu.