Balder and Wiser Too

At age 20 my hair began to suck back into my skull, I felt like I was turning into E.T. I was the mortal in my family, the one who, unlike my Greek-god brothers with luscious curls, was susceptible to male pattern baldness. My condition appeared to be terminal.

At first, I tried to hide my hair’s gradual disappearance under a comb-over—that Band-Aid-like hairstyle in which you strap hair from one side of your head to the other side in a feeble attempt to camouflage the bare skin exposed as your hairline recedes into oblivion. Unfortunately, a comb-over never stays in place when you go swimming or when you’re making out and your love runs her fingers through your hair, inevitably at the worst possible time.

 Managing the patchy hair tumbleweeds on my scalp became progressively more aggravating. No matter what I tried, my hairstyle ended up looking like a bird’s nest. After returning from a ballroom dance trip to Europe, I decided I’d rather have no hair at all than look like that. I buzzed it.

Unfortunately, when I burned the bird’s nest, I forgot that, within a week, I would be flying to Florida with my university dance team to perform at one of the biggest national dance competitions in America, Millennium Dancesport. Too late, I realized I had put myself in a vulnerable position.

When I greeted my teammates for the first time after I shaved my head, some scowled disapproval. A few looked confused. Others didn’t seem to care. For me, the toughest reaction of all came from my coach who said, “Joe, you cut your hair”—as if he was trying to make my baldness sound better than it looked. My confidence plunged.

***

Flying to Florida with the team was emotionally exhausting, mainly because I spent so much of the trip beating myself up. How could I become a professional ballroom dancer? I thought people only wanted to watch beautiful dancers. How could I get married? I thought women only wanted men with great manes.

I worried what the judges would think about my new look. Ballroom dance is a sport based on aesthetics. In basketball, you can make a granny shot and still win the game. Ballroom is judged on your appearance, on the judge’s opinion of how you and your dancing look. What if the judges didn’t like my hairless head?

On the day of our competitive performance, I dressed for the Lindy in a costume consisting of a white shirt, white pants, and white shoes. I looked like a black Mr. Clean. I felt ridiculous, and I walked into the competition expecting to be humiliated by noticeably unfavorable reactions to my baldness. But as I stepped onto the floor and danced with my teammates, something unexpected happened. I forgot about my buzzed head. I felt good inside. I felt like people were seeing me for me. I stopped judging myself and I just danced. I had the time of my life.

Doing something uncomfortable, making myself vulnerable in front of people, changed my perspective. It made me proud of myself and who I am. Personal reconstruction and acceptance grew out of putting myself through the emotional wringer.

I realized that that line from The Little Prince is true: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” Like a monk with a shaven head, I felt a little closer to the Big Guy Upstairs. I viewed others with more love. After all, how could I judge other people when my own imperfections were so visible? 

I had been holding onto the poisonous pain of breaking up with my girlfriend, sullen and depressed because the woman of my dreams no longer loved me. Letting go of my hair made it easier to let go of those toxic emotions. I could move on, which brought me hope. I began to rely on the internal and the eternal rather than on the external and the superficial.

***

When I went to the gym at my university not long after shaving my head, I noticed a young woman with no hair. At first, I wondered why she shaved her head. Then, as I continued to look at her, I noticed something else. There was a silent wholeness about her presence. She was completely bald—and completely beautiful—a kind of Wakanda warrior. She was lifting weights, she was living life, she was happy. Her lack of concern about being bald as a woman bolstered my confidence about being a bald man. There was no worry or self-consciousness about her. She accepted herself and her circumstances. I couldn’t help but stare at her—but I was not staring because there was something wrong. I was staring because everything was right.

When I started losing my hair, I thought my dreams were over. Grabbing my razor and getting rid of my hair on my own term surprised and freed me. The bald man in the mirror looked more familiar than I expected, more like me. No comb-over, no hat—just me. 

And I realized that being me is all I need to be.