Being bald in a world of hairy heroes
By Samuel Leighton-Dore
I was eight years old when my favourite auntie (giggly-drunk on Christmas chardonnay) broke the devastating news: I was going to lose my hair. My glorious mop of honey-blonde hair. She rolled her eyes and laughed with a condescending flare of maternal theatrics. It was hereditary, she said – unavoidable. Heart racing, I glanced across the room to my grandfather. Bald. My uncles? Bald, bald, baseball-cap – presumedly bald.
That was it. My idealistic views of success and masculinity, once anchored in the sanctity of youth, had been abruptly robbed in what felt like a cruel and premeditated genetic genocide. And matters only got worse. Throughout my tumultuous-at-best teenage years I became increasingly gripped by a fear of the inevitable. I’d raise my mother’s soapy hand-mirror to my tasseled crown and gaze for minutes on end. Had it happened yet? Every wayward strand or glimpse of exposed scalp felt like a crushing defeat, and I slowly resigned myself to the role of supporting actor in my own romantic comedy.
After all, doesn’t the lead always have hair?
Baldness has become the everyday man’s menopause; synonymous with premature aging, weakness, unattractiveness, and perceptions of sexual incompetence. Aside from a few unwillingly elected poster-men (Vin Diesel, The Rock, Patrick Stewart) the most common depictions of bald men in film, television, and the mainstream media appear strictly limited to the Dr. Evils – sad, often sociopathic villains and undesirably tragic romantic suitors.
“I shouldn’t love him, he’s pudgy and bald!” Laments a clearly distressed Charlotte in one episode of Sex & The City. “Ugh, gross. He’s losing his hair!” Squeals a drunken millennial, swiping left on Tinder at the local gay bar. Indeed, it seems nobody’s immune from the evil clutches of social judgement. International newspapers and gossip sites relish the opportunity to publish unflattering vacation photos of Prince William caught in the gust of an unforgiving southerly, needlessly pointing out that he’s thinning on top – just as his father had. Yes, it remains true that nothing cuts to the tender core of an otherwise confident (or even royal) man’s ego quite like a receding hairline or protruding bald patch.
Hair loss brings with it a myriad of fun new insecurities. Weird things like an aversion to going down on your lover for the fear of exposing your crowning shame – and knowing that hats, beanies and headscarves are no longer meager fashion accessories, but rather band-aids to your wounded pride. Every date or romantic fling becomes undermined by a brooding fear of the temporary. You feel somehow fraudulent in your appearance – as though obliged to shamefully concede, “I’m not going to look like this forever – so if luscious Beiber-esque hair is your thing, you might as well leave now!”
Psychologically speaking, I think it goes without saying that hair means more to us than simple “protein filaments that grow from follicles found in the dermis, or skin.” It’s a strictly defining characteristic; the brittle root of a millennial gay man’s self-esteem. Aside from being a vessel for self-expression, identity, and even rebellion – we’re raised in a culture that unapologetically glorifies the thick-haired heroes over the balding baddies. Which seems strange, particularly when 40% of men will experience noticeable hair-loss by the age of thirty-five and over 47% of all “sufferers” are so deeply traumatised by their receding hair-lines that they would gladly spend their entire life savings on a guaranteed cure.
The LGBTQI community is particularly relentless on the subject, perhaps given our blunter-than-usual focus on aesthetic. There is, however, an unlikely saving grace to be found in the dusty corners of queer subculture. Yes, social compartmentalisation can be a blessing in disguise. For instance, a balding twink would be wise to quickly jump aboard the so-called gain train, grow some stubble (or draw it on) and cover himself in Sailor Jerry tattoos. Voila! No longer a twink, our new muscle-cub would be resoundingly embraced for his clean head, mysterious demeanour, and edgy physique.
Trust me, it’s true – I did it!
Unwilling to go down with the hereditarily sinking ship, I defiantly shaved my head completely bald at twenty-two. A buzz-cut, I reasoned, at least withheld some waining degree of control and youthful masculinity. I suppose it offered the illusion of choice; perhaps I was in the Army, a globe-trotting Buddhist monk – or an escaped prisoner of war. I immediately felt empowered; facing up to my chronic fear ageing and the endless anxieties attached to my appearance allowed me the chance to both rediscover and redefine what it meant to feel and look good. I handed in my resignation to twinkdom and embraced a life less focused on ,hand-mirrors and the strength/direction of wind.
Oh, and there’s something strangely liberating about looking in the mirror and announcing to one’s own reflection – this is what I fucking look like! You can all fucking deal with it!