My hair and I have a love/hate relationship. Specifically, my hair loves to hate me. What else could it be, now that I'm going bald?

To be fair, my hair is only thinning so far, but that's just part of its diabolical plot. Yes, I said plot. The CIA lobe in my brain has picked up plenty of "chatter" between groups of hair-terrorist follicles, and from these intercepts I've been able to lay out my hair's plan:

Step 1: Begin to recede while Andy is in college. This will make him start to worry and drive him to scour through family photo albums, looking for bald relatives. The stress of discovering that nearly all of his relatives are bald will make Andy drink too much, resulting in at least one awkward, hung-over morning when Andy will wake up with his 72 year old bio-physics professor who compliments Andy's tenure. And she'll still give him a D on the final.

Step 2: You know that spot at the back of your head where your hair kind of swirls and where most men start going bald? The same spot that Rogaine and Propecia is designed to treat? Yeah, let's not go bald there. Let's start thinning at the front of Andy's head, where he can't do anything about it. This will be awesome, Andy sucks.

Step 3: As soon as Andy starts to publicly acknowledge that his hair is thinning, let's really cut to the chase. Go wild! And don't stop until he looks like Willard Scott!

My girlfriend doesn't seem to mind that my hair is thinning. Then again, she can't possibly understand the full ramification of losing hair. My girlfriend leaves hair everywhere she goes, but she never seems to run out. Shower drain, bathroom sink — it's at the point where she can't walk past a glass of water without making a deposit!

She tries to make me feel better about my hair situation, but it's clear her heart just isn't into it.

Girlfriend: "You'll look handsome without hair. Just like George Clooney!"

Me: "But George Clooney isn't bald."

Girlfriend: "Mmmm… George Clooney…"

Some people ask how my hair started plotting to destroy me. My hair has held a grudge against me for years, angry about my childhood decision to wear a military-style flattop you could land a plane on. That flattop was cut and gelled so precisely, NASA would borrow me for aerodynamics experiments. I got rid of the look in Junior High, but my hair has never forgiven me. It has always been unruly, dancing around on my head like a drunken wildfire. It stands up, it stands out, and it stands for making my life miserable. In group photos, I can be identified as the person whose hair is waving at the camera.

All those fights over the years should have been a dead giveaway that my hair would leave me. As with any relationship, if you avoid the real issues by covering them up with hair gel and fiber crème, you'll just wind up looking like one of those hairless Chinese dogs.

I've tried having a rational discussion with my hair. But the hair never listens.

"Hair," I'll say, "you've held this grudge for long enough, how about we shampoo and make up?"

Or, "See that nice looking hair stylist? Would you like to have her run those delicate, long fingers through you, Hair? Well too bad, sucker — we're going to the old man with knobby knuckles!"

"Oh hello there, Hair. You're looking very boisterous this morning! I have an idea — stop plotting my death!"

And the ever popular: "I will shave you right off, don't think I won't!"

Despite my amiable attempts to cajole it toward a truce, my hair inevitably just lies there, listlessly. That is, until someone takes a photo. Then it looks like it's having a party and nobody else is invited.

Since my hair seems determined to fight this battle to the death, I'm plotting my own counter-strike. It may seem drastic, but really, it's the only thing I can do now that my hair is falling out.

I'm collecting all the locks of hair my girlfriend discards — and taking a weaving class.

Copyright © 2006 Andy Murphy
Please do not remove the copyright from this work.

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