To baldy go…
Some may espouse the virtues of baldness, but for others, it’s a constant battle.
Okay, alright. That’s it. That’s enough. The next person that touches my head I will surely beat to a stringy pulp.
I am bald. Okay! And for some reason, people that I do not even know feel they have the right to run their greasy hands over my shiny head as if they’re trying to conjure up a blissful prophecy. Some have even kissed it. Hello! I am not a Blarney stone. Worst of all is the funny guy who thinks that we are in a Benny Hill sketch and slaps my head as if he was dribbling a basketball!
‘Oh, you really love it, don’t you! ’ I hear you laugh from your Rapunzel tower. You think you know everything, swaggering around the promenade with your shag-pile of vanity sprouting vertically out of your head like some mutant bean stork, making condescending affectations to the follicly impoverished. Well let me tell you something, muff brain.
You’re weak. Admit it. You see a bald man in public and you feel a slight tingle wash over your body. Maybe even a slight churn of the stomach. Your hands begin to shake. You’re even beginning to get a little excited. That sea of skin is the best bald head you’ve seen for days and it’s right there in front of you. And you sweat. Because you want it, baby! You want to feel it, touch it, caress it. You want to let those fingers melt into that naked scalp. Yeah, that head is hot for it and it’s makin’ you crazy just thinkin’ about it!!
You think I’m making this up? Tell me, when was the last time you saw someone go up to a head of hair and rub it vigorously? Slapped, even. Never. People with hair don’t like other people with or without hair touching their head. End of story. It’s too intimate. Besides, they’ve spent hours with the blow drier trying to get the right ‘whikkk’ into their $85 hair style. I mean, never mind the fact that when someone touches your head they’re just millimetres from your squishy brain. Just one little accidental push from their index finger and you could be left trying to force-feed your eye with peas for the rest of your life.
‘Just wear a wig, ’ you moan. ‘That’ll stop ‘em. ’ Oh, right. Sure. And look like I’ve got road kill stapled to my head? No thanks. Besides, my father used to wear one, and as he aged and his face shrunk, the Goddamn thing ate him!
No. Bald man are a sad, maligned species who should be run into the desert and beaten to death with spoons. But that would deny head-slapping aficionados from their daily fetish. So I have a solution.
We’ve all heard of Injecting Rooms. Why not have Head-Rubbing rooms? There, consenting bald men can sit down quietly while frenzied head-rubbing addicts can run in and get their head-rub fix for the day. This would be supervised of course − just in case someone overdosed and rubbed some poor bastard into the shape of an ash tray.
Alas, I can already hear objections. ‘Great idea, but not in my backyard!’ I mean, who would want a laneway full of aggrieved, bald men charging into their neighbourhood?
No. Enough is enough. The only way I can see of stopping these head-slapping freaks is to enlighten them to a wonderfully distorted fact; when you rub a bald man’s head you’re really rubbing his penis.