You ever think male pattern baldness is the longest-running psychological operation in history? I figured it out. Look at Japanese samurai. These guys had those wild hairstyles—the chonmage—where they’d shave the top of their heads and just keep the sides. It was genius. It wasn't about aerodynamics; it was a massive, centuries-long PSYOP to make every other dude on the planet feel like, "Oh, a receding hairline? That's not a genetic failing. That's a warrior's choice."
It worked. Fast forward to me, three months ago, in my bathroom under that cruel, unforgiving LED light. I saw it. The Thinning. My fontanelle—that soft spot you have as a baby—was making a comeback tour. My scalp was staging a hostile takeover.
So I do what any sane person does. I go to my hairstylist at Great Clips, a woman named Cheryl who has seen things. I point to the top of my head and joke, "So, Cheryl, think we can just plant a flag up there? Claim it for a new country?" Silence. Just the buzz of her clippers. The sound of my own social demise. She finally goes, "We could... texturize the layers around it." Texturize. That's the word you use when you've given up.
And everyone says, "Just shave it all off! Go full Bruce Willis!" That is advice given by and for people with jawlines. I shave my head, I don't look like a badass. I look like a giant, sentient thumb. It's not a style choice, it's a public service announcement for my thyroid.
So here I am. Stuck between a warrior's legacy and a thumb's reality. My head is now a designated bald spot, with a fringe benefit.
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