Going Bald

At some point in the last week Jana and I sat across from each other. At dinner, on the metro, in an S&M pleasure dungeon, I don't remember. But I had my head down a bit, and Jana reached across and made a circle around my bald spot. She leaned back and giggled. What the fuck? I was understandably upset. Actually I was mad but I couldn't say anything because I knew it would have been supid and made me look more like a retard than I already do. I'm going bald. That's a fact, my hair is leaving the earth for the next transcendant plain, and only a few follicles are left behind to battle against the evil hoardes of back hair that are slowly colonizing my body. Just like the Roman fucking Empire. Please excuse my language. Why am I sensitive about the subject? Probably because I can do nothing about it. I know that if I cared too much about my budding beer belly (this is different than my old fat belly - it's now mostly beer) I could stop and work out and get into shape. I know it can make myself more educated and marketable. I can even make myself more attractive by ironing my clothes and avoiding any conversation that might involve politics or my unhealthy romanic infatuation with the aforementioned Czech beer. But with hair I can do nothing. Well I could take propecia like I used to, but that destroyed my libido. And truthfully, without libido the world turns kinda gray and middle-aged. No, my genetic heritage (thanks, mom) has forced me to accept the inevitability of my loss. I wake up every morning, run my hand over my fuzzy head, and remember that every day with my boys up top is a blessing. Soon I will have to cope with topside sunburns, with cheesy free baseball caps, and maybe even with the comb-over. But not today. Not just yet.