The Bald Truth

There's a small clarification issue which must be addressed today.  My mom brought it to my attention.  Though I drew a parallel between my decision to totally shave my head and sport the cue ball look for a time AND my choice to become a platinum blond after a lifetime spent as a brunette, the only real comparison is both actions were visually dramatic and involved my hair.

Though there was a huge chunk of curiosity involved with the bald adventure, another significant aspect was my ever-present need to physically empathize with a specific group of people possessing a trait which separates them from the average person.  In this case, women who suffered hair loss due to cancer treatments, alopecia, or something along those lines.  My hair at that point cascaded down to the center of my back in healthy wavy falls of dark brown.  It frustrated me to think of the beauty stereotype attached to a full head of long hair.  Let's forget about the laundry list of bodily attributes paraded throughout the pages of glossy magazines and ads.  What about the silky sultry tresses and the often tiring list of tools, products, and skills required to achieve them?!

Bald men are often accepted as sex symbols. Buffed shaved pates are considered attractive in both young and old, whether heading up the secret FBI task force in charge of Scully and Mulder, or manning the helm of the USS Enterprise through the remote regions of a futuristic star-filled space.  But aside from the random Celtic songstress or the G.I. antics of Demi Moore, ladies without hair are generally considered either ill -- out of all the strangers who approached me about my baldness, only one, count 'em 1, knew it was just a hair choice, and she was in her 60's, loved the look -- and not glamorous.  

So, the woman who as a little girl sought out ways to experience blindness, deafness, paralysis, and a few other physical difficulties, decided to take her feelings and put them to the acid test.  Perhaps if I had already begun the opinion column I would later write during that time of my life, words would have been my form of expression.  But, somehow I doubt it.  I'd have done it and THEN wrote the danged column.

May-y-be-e in the big out there is a flaxen-haired gal in need of empathy.  A Goldilocks wanting solidarity from a dark-haired counterpart.  A fair Rapunzel searching for a 'sister' willing to sacrifice her healthy locks to a triple-process experiment in creating straw from keratin.  Perhaps I was compassionately tapped into that need and responded in kind when I clipped the magazine pictures and taped them into the pages of my journal. 

Or, my curious eyes locked onto something shiny and couldn't look away until it was mine for a time!   Whatever helps you sleep better at night. . .