The other day I found an old photo album at the bottom of an old chest. In there were many pictures of me in my late teens and early twenties. Many made me laugh at the styles, the awkwardness but one thing made me want to cry. I don’t really miss the carefree days all that much, even though all I had to worry about was where I could find quarter beer night. I don’t think about old cars or girlfriends. I do miss greatly what was on top of my head.

I know my hair used to take a lot of extra work. It’s been a good fifteen years since I required the use of a hair dryer. I miss that dry air and the smell of burnt follicles. I miss trying to avoid looking like the guy in A Flock of Seagulls on a day with forty mile-per-hour gusts. I greatly miss the “stylist” running her fingers through what she called “a great head of hair” (I’m sure some of that was about getting a tip).

Coworkers have put me on the Hair Club for Men mailing list and an anonymous empty tube of Rogaine has been left on my chair when I was out of the office. I thought for a brief moment that when Bon Iver won a Grammy, somehow Male Pattern Baldness would suddenly become shriek. I’m still waiting for that moment and increasing my collection of caps.