Once upon a time I used to write for fun, but I thought my old posts were long lost. I found one today, from around 2009! Maybe I’ll find more. But for now, here’s the thoughts of a 29-30 year old me …

Do you know what hair is? The sort that sprouts out the top of your head I mean. Hair is dead cells. As in not alive. Do you have any idea how depressing that is? Because as someone going bald it means that the dead are rejecting me. Death finds me too damn repulsive to stick around so even in their dead state, strands of hair from my head manage to somehow find enough energy to pop out and run the hell away. It’s natural for living things to cling on to life; nature designed our bodies to try and survive no matter what the circumstances. Yet my hair doesn’t have the energy to cling on to life but it musters up the strength to escape from my head. It really is the worst kind of rejection there is.

The thing is though, once you realize that your own body will run away from you if it had the chance you start wondering about other things. For instance when your parents told you they loved you and said seemingly innocent things when you were little like “you’re a big boy now, it’s time you slept in your own room”, were they doing it because they wanted to teach you to be independent, or were they just putting as much physical distance between you and them as they possibly could? After all let’s face it, if the dead are running away from you, the chances are pretty damn slim that your parents want you in the same room while they’re sleeping with the lights off. In horror movies, they always get you in the dark. So 10 metres, 3 doors and lots of brick and concrete is a comforting thought for parents I’m guessing.

But then, can we victims of male pattern baldness really be held accountable for any of this? For really, that’s precisely what we are: victims. We didn’t choose to go bald. We didn’t make ourselves repugnant. It’s the way we were made. Yet we’re forced to hide in the shadows and live lives of shame and mourning. We’re meant to feel the guilt and sorrow as each strand plucks its way to freedom from us; we who love every one of those strands and we who would gladly welcome them back to our barren scalps.

No, the truth is not that we’re repulsive. We’re accepting. We’re full of love, we’re caring, kind and compassionate. It’s the rest of you who should feel ashamed. You hair-headed elitists who feel compelled to judge and ridicule us for our decency. So I stand proudly here today, one in the sea of balding men and say NO to you and your kind. NO to your abuse. NO to your tyranny. NO to your hate.

I am a balding man. Hear me roar!

Please hear me roar, because nobody bothers looking at me anymore.