That Guy

I know it's time to shave my head when I turn into 'that guy'.

'That guy' was someone I have noticed, and ridiculed, fairly regularly throughout my life. You might not have noticed him yourself, but I assure you, he's there. He's a balding fellow, receding hairline, one who's pretty sure he's unobserved. He's the guy who takes advantage of his reflection in a store window or a lobby mirror and tries to quickly rearrange his thinning coif to somehow hide the fact that in the war of scalp and hair, hair is making a strategic retreat. He's looking for a bit of magic, that guy is, a way of folding or turning or entangling his locks so that not enough hair can hide too much skin.

There's no way to do it, of course, but he, that is I, keep trying, like a fat lady in 'slimming' spandex and a belly shirt. We can't help it, but that such magic exists is just one of those illusions we need to get through the day.

Fortunately for me, I also labor under the illusion that I have a well-shaped, and not at all egg-like, skull. This allows me to see shaving my head as a viable option. This is good, as I hate being 'that guy.'