On Saturday, I took one look in the mirror and decided I could take it no more. The thinning crown, the receding hairline - it had to stop. So, I walked into the office and made my announcement.
Me: "Today is the day."
Lor: "What day is that?"
Me: "The day I shave my head."
Lor: "If you think that's what you want..."
Lor has been dead set against me shaving my head for quite a while now. However, her own recent haircut and the positive effect it has had on her appearance and her personal outlook had softened her opinion on me making my own drastic change. However, one detail remained...
Lor: "Where are you going to get it done?"
Me: "We are BROKE. I am doing it myself!"
Lor: "I don't think that is such a great idea..."
Undeterred by spousal concerns, I headed into the bathroom to begin work, armed with a normal facial razor and this:
For those of you reading on a smaller screen: Yes, that is a battery powered beard trimmer.
What was it that led me to believe this would be a great tool for prepping a head full of (admittedly thinning) hair? I would like to say "hope" but, in truth, it was "impatience". I could not stand the idea of looking at the growing divots in my hairline any longer. I began my work about 11 AM. At Noon, I emerged, looking for a new set of batteries for the beard trimmer.
Lor: "Why are you wearing a beanie?"
Me: "I don't want to scare you."
By 12:30 my head was maybe 25% trimmed. The problem? It was trimmed unevenly, with random growths sticking out in all directions thanks to the unruly cowlicks that populate my head. And this was just the front of my head. The top and back were thinned, but still largely covered in hair. In desperation, I hopped into the shower with my razor and a set of scissors.
30 minutes later, the drain was clogging due to randomly removed hair and I had dulled both my scissors and my razor.
I emerged, water dripping from the ceiling over the shower due to the length of my hair-removal adventure. Looking in the mirror, I noted that I now looked like I had been exposed to radiation or chemical warfare, with random patches of hair growing from various locations on my scalp. I dressed, put my beanie back on, and went to the bank to withdraw $20 from our Emergency Fund to get the mess repaired professionally.
The area around my stylist's chair was full of laughter and levity as I described my hours-long ordeal. 2 stylists and three people waiting for haircuts all had to crowd around to see the grand unveiling when I pulled the beanie off.
There was a moment of silence, broken by my stylist: "Thank you for keeping the beanie on until now."
10 minutes later, I was shorn professionally, and left with a long list of scalp-care instructions and promises that the story of my "do-it-yourself" attempt would be a featured entertainment at Thanksgiving gatherings all over the city. I smiled and bore the teasing as best I could, knowing that I still had to face the "I told you so." moment at home. It wasn't bad, as these things go, but I may never be allowed unsupervised in a bathroom again.
Ah, well. If we truly learn from failure, then I have earned the equivalent of a college degree in how to make a mess of yourself.
Oh, the final result? Here you go:
Boy, Does That Scalp Need Some Color,