Another Haircut

There is a hereditary rule for predicting baldness. I forget the specifics. If your Uncle on your Mom's side is bald, you'll be bald? Or is it your mother's father, or your father's mother? It doesn't matter. In my family, they're all bald.

My hairline has rapidly receded for several years now. I'm reminded of this on occasion. I'll have a moment of consternation and self-pity, and then adjust to the new setback in the War on Forehead until the next reminder.

The latest one was yesterday, staring at myself in the mirror at The Hair Cuttery. The stylist had just finished cutting my hair, and I was completely lost in thought, feeling depressed at the vast expanse of forehead facing me, sparely dotted with small wisps of hair huddling together like refugees from a still ongoing battle.

"It's okay," the stylist said.

I broke out of my thoughts. The worry on my face must have been obvious for her to say that.

She put her hand on my shoulder. "It's okay."

That made me smile. You know what? It is okay. Balding sucks, but it's not the end of the world. It's part of life, and I'll just have to live with it. I gave her a knowing nod. You're right. It is okay.

It wasn't until the third time that she asked "It's okay?" that I realized we weren't having an unspoken connection where a familiar combination of male baldness and angst made my inner thoughts clear and my need for comfort obvious, but rather she just wanted to know if I liked my haircut, and for the past 30 seconds I was just responding to her by winking and nodding.

"Yeah, yeah, it's okay!" I jumped out of the chair. As I left, I realized I still felt a little better, even if the compassion was accidental.