My uncle Mike is bald. Well, was bald. He’s dead now. I guess he’s still bald though — so I stand behind my first comment. Anyways…
My mother is a stylist. That’s a dumbed down word for beautician. She has given me every haircut I’ve ever had, besides one. Around age 10, she made the comment, “You have hair just like your uncle Mike used to have.” This scared me. He was bald then. And as previously discussed, bald now… but you know, dead.
Around the age of 17, I first started to notice that my hairline was creeping up. Whatever, Caesar style that shit forward and move on with life. Around 23, the hairline was creeping further and a monkey butt was forming in the crown region. Whatever, buy some minoxidil and dab it on. Now at 26, I feel like I’m starting to get to the point where I should just shave it off. Every hairstyle feels like a cover-up. Every day I’m swirling hair to cover up what some doctors describe as “a big fucking forehead.”
God damn genetics. As if things weren’t complicated enough. Now I have to design haircuts with different lengths and sweeping processes. At what point do I break out the razor and rock the chrome dome? If only my uncle were still alive to give me some much needed guidance. Rest in peace. Gone and never forgotten. In loving memory of my uncle Mike and preteen hairline.