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"Some Cynical Guy" No. 10: August 25, 2000 The Naked Pate I used to have a recurring nightmare in which I'd gaze into the bathroom mirror and discover that most of my hair was missing. A few meager wisps clung to the top of the dome, but I was decidedly a member of the Naked Pate Club -- one of the follicularly challenged, the unhaired, the BALD. Then I'd wake up, probe the top of my head with one hand and feel immeasurably relieved. I knew I was targeted for eventual baldness; the corners of my hairline started going fuzzy back in college. But I was pleasantly surprised that most of my cranial foliage had survived intact into middle age. Sure, I had a balding spot in the back -- but if I couldn't see it, it didn't really count. And I had the makings of a Nixonian hairline in front -- forehead climbing up the scalp to right and left, but the center was standing tough. If I brushed it to one side, as I usually did, you got the impression that my hair was here to stay, that it would accompany me to Valhalla and beyond. But in the last year or two, even the sturdy center patch has been losing its robustness. When I looked in the mirror this morning, I beheld a Napoleonic wisp of hair dangling down the middle, revealing an alarming expanse of naked scalp to one side. It was finally happening -- not as drastically as in my dreams, but it was happening all the same. I had crossed the line from being a full-haired man who was thinning out a bit, to being a BALDING man who still retained a goodly share of his crowning plumage, at least for the moment. It's just a matter of time before I look like Danny DeVito, only taller. Just a matter of time before I need to start slathering sunscreen where my hair used to be. What is it about bald men that makes us snicker at them? Is there something intrinsically amusing about the shiny dome, the wisps of baby fuzz atop the noggin, the pathetic fringe that stretches from ear to ear around the hindquarters of the head? Could we be indulging a prankish need to taunt our fellows over a setback that is, admittedly, far less calamitous than bankruptcy or liver disease? Most bald men survive their affliction, after all; despite recent medical reports that men with missing hair are more prone to ailments of the heart, notable baldies like Winston Churchill and Pablo Picasso have soared triumphantly past the age of ninety. But the fact remains that, even in an age of militant political correctness, an age in which we're forced to bandy euphemisms like "unsighted," "hearing-impaired" and "differently abled," it's still perfectly acceptable to chuckle at the misfortunes of bald men. When will we grant the unhaired their rightful status as a disadvantaged minority? Because disadvantaged they are. It's not only that bald men are more prone to sunburned scalps, not simply a matter of impaired cranial aesthetics. It's that they get no respect. Let's look at the forty-plus individuals we've elected president of the United States. All but five of them have been men of hair. Who were the five brave baldies who managed to slip past the guards? John Adams and his son, John Quincy Adams -- both one-termers. Martin Van Buren, who embellished his naked pate by puffing out his remaining locks in the manner later adopted by Larry of The Three Stooges -- also booted out after a single term. Next baldy on the roster: James A. Garfield. They shot him. After Garfield's demise, a full seventy-two years would pass before another hair-impaired president took the oath of office: the wildly popular World War II hero, Dwight D. Eisenhower. Did America's voters like Ike because he had rescued Europe from the Nazis and led the Allies to a resounding victory? It would be pleasant to think so, but I fear the real reason is that his opponent, Adlai Stevenson, had even less hair than Ike. The only other balding chief exec, Gerald Ford, simply stepped in for the deposed Nixon and failed to be elected in his own right. The man who vanquished him was an eminently thatched Georgian named Jimmy Carter. So there you have it: over two hundred years of American presidents, and only twenty-three years of baldness in the White House to date. If you take away Eisenhower, who defeated an even balder fellow, we're left with just fifteen years. Remove the unelected Ford, and we're down to a measly twelve-and-a-half years. I think I'm on to something here, don't you? What can bald men do to remedy their plight? The options are many, and they all seem depressingly futile. Let them grow a foot-long strand of hair to comb across the top, and we laugh them out of town. Ditto for men with sorry-looking toupees -- and all toupees are sorry-looking, the worst of them giving the impression of a small dead mammal draped over the head. Hair weaving and transplants aren't worth the pain and bother, not to mention a financial investment that could feed the population of a small African republic for six months. Much-hyped hair restoratives like Rogaine, when they succeed at all, succeed only on top-of-the-crown bald spots -- and only if those spots haven't already expanded beyond the diameter of a potato chip. We could shave our scalps, concealing our shame by pretending to revel in it. Or, if we're fortunate enough to look like Sean Connery, we can grow a beard that shifts public attention to the nether end of our head. We can all convert to Hasidic Judaism and wear our hats indoors. Or we can rediscover the noble eighteenth-century tradition of the ornamental wig; slip on those puffy gray locks, have your valet powder them for you, and you're all set to pinch snuff and chortle over the latest gossip from the Court of St. James. Nobody has to suspect that you're actually BALD. Baldness is a gentle affliction, as afflictions go; it takes its time and causes no pain. But it changes us forever, and there's no fighting it. Those of us on the brink of baldness can only look back upon our full-haired days with a tender regret, a remembrance of glories past. As we come to realize that pretty women will snub us, that children will giggle at us, that nobody will elect us to the Oval Office unless our opponent is also bald, it's time for us to think of the great ones who have faced the same plight with grace and dignity: men like Socrates, Julius Caesar, Shakespeare, Lenin, Churchill, Elmer Fudd. They never let their baldness stand between them and their pursuit of excellence. Neither should we. After all, a bald noggin is associated with masculinity and intellect; we should wear our naked pates proudly as a mark of mature and manly dignity. But I wish I hadn't thought about Elmer Fudd. © 2000 by Bridget Petrella Media Relations. "Some Cynical Guy" appears here by permission of the publisher.  "Some Cynical Guy" column archive: 2002 81 -- A Brisk Walk Through the Ruins 80 -- The Fountain of Futility 79 -- Farewell to the Big House 78 -- The Cynical Guy Contemplates Cell Phones 77 -- Rich and Poor in Paradise 76 -- Dead Ducks: A Tale of the Food Chain 75 -- Old Comedians Just Fade Away 74 -- Suburbia Comes to Manayunk 73 -- When Nestlings Won't Leave the Nest 72 -- The Curse of High Standards 71 -- Inside the House of Horrors 70 -- The Post-Yuppie Handbook 69 -- Spring Reflections 68 -- Priestly Perversions 67 -- British Teeth: An Apology 66 -- The Sniffling Snout 65 -- Bullies with Social Skills 64 -- Supermarket Rage 63 -- Is the U.S. Really the Greatest? 62 -- The Holes in Our Armor 61 -- A Breath of Used Air 60 -- The Cynical Guy Has Sex 59 -- Let's Abolish the Seven-Day Week! 2001 58 -- Why Worry About the Future of Books? 57 -- The Friendly Face of Evil 56 -- Why We Live Where We Live 55 -- The Cynical Guy Discovers Talk Radio 54 -- Kite-Flying and Other Crimes 53 -- My Night as a Socialite 52 -- Gardening Is Not for Sissies 51 -- Invaders of the Honeysuckle 50 -- To Be a Cat 49 -- The Upside of Terrorism 48 -- The Vanishing Nerd 47 -- Anger Management for Cynics 46 -- Let's Level the Playing Field for Disadvantaged WASPs 45 -- First Impressions, Lasting Impressions 44 -- Close Encounter with a Go-Getter 43 -- Cheering for a Perennial Loser 42 -- The Cynical Guy Reads the Tabloids 41 -- When Does the Good Part Begin? 40 -- Confessions of an Internet Addict 39 -- The Decline of Punctuation and Civilization 38 -- Oh Baby, What a Nightmare! 37 -- The Cynical Guy Watches 'Xena: Warrior Princess' 36 -- A Night-Stroll into the Void 35 -- In Search of the Elusive Wild Tomato 34 -- Getting in Touch with Your Inner S.O.B. 33 -- The Lure of the Lurid 32 -- Black Tie and Beard Stubble 31 -- In Heaven There Is No Pez 30 -- Did You Make the Forbes Celebrity 100 List? 29 -- Redesigning Mt. Rushmore 28 -- On Listening to Dead Voices 27 -- Selling Your Soul on eBay 26 -- Sympathy for Colonel Klink 25 -- Democratic Celebrities in Exile 24 -- High School Revisited 23 -- A Farewell to Bachelorhood 2000 22 -- Requiem for a Middleweight 21 -- Is There a Gene for Tackiness? 20 -- How the Beautiful People Entertain Themselves 19 -- The Cynical Guy Gets Behind the Wheel 18 -- The Fickle Finger of Fame 17 -- Adventures in Bodybuilding 16 -- Some Don't Like It Hot 15 -- The Cynical Guy Watches Oprah 14 -- Sports Parents: Menace to Society? 13 -- Airfare Is No Fair at All 12 -- There's No Such Thing as 'New and Improved' 11 -- Celtomania! 10 -- The Naked Pate 9 -- Vanishing Act 8 -- Bush vs. Gore: It Could Be Worse 7 -- Who Wants to Be a Survivor? 6 -- Adventures in Heart Attack Prevention 5 -- Where Men Are Men 4 -- Thoughts While Listening to the Car Radio 3 -- History Is HISTORY 2 -- The Great Casino 1 -- Greetings from Your New Cynical Guy

Bayan, who claims to be a "kinder, gentler cynic," currently lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania. His weekly column, "Some Cynical Guy," is published and syndicated by Upbeat Online. 

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