I used to be a beautiful once.
Like truly beautiful.
I'm talking the kind of beautiful that causes traffic and adds time to your commute and makes people trip and faceplant into sidewalks because they weren't watching where they’re going.
You don’t understand: I was b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l.
You don't know what it's like.
You don't know the bliss of finding out a stranger asked your friend for your Instagram handle.
Not so that they could contact you, but so that they could creep on you from afar.
Bliss!
You don't know the joy of walking into a room and noting in your peripheral vision that the prettiest girl in the room has spent 0.3 seconds longer than necessary staring in your direction.
Or was it because she spotted the waiter coming out with the pie she ordered?
No, she was definitely staring at me because, as a beautiful person, I can know this without a shred of doubt.
You don't know the joy of having someone ask you if you are a model, and the even greater joy of being able to turn up your nose and say, "Nuh-uh, I do brain-stuff. What? No, I’m not a neurosurgeon… I’m… never mind."
You don't know.
But I do.
And when I think upon those old memories of people's gawking faces right before they planted those faces into sidewalks, my heart swells with nostalgia and longing.
But it's all over now.
I'm going bald.
Now, allow me to hold up my hand to your uproarious protests.
"But August," I know you wish to say, "surely you know that the latest advancements in science and modern medicine have a solution to this gruesome affliction?"
YOU DON'T THINK I'M WELL AWARE?
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout.
It's just that I've tried everything, dear friend. Everything.
Horse-grade pharmaceuticals, magical berries, and all manner of pungent oils and tinctures.
One time I even allowed an old, one-eyed witch to convince me that rubbing her toenail shavings across my head would revitalize my roots — toenail shavings that could be had for the very low price of $1399, shipping included.
So trust me when I say, I'm well aware.
My doctors have informed me that I'm what you call a "non-responder" — a word filled with a passive-aggressive, quiet hate in the medical community.
It's nearly as bad as the word "baldy," and in the end, the two mean the same thing.
What they intend to convey with the term "non-responder" is that your body isn't acting the way the white coats expect, and that's not a them problem but very much a you problem.
So what can I say?
It's all over.
I'm a has-been.
I know there will be people who will say, “Don't worry, it's fine to be bald as a man. It's masculine.”
But you still don’t get it.
With hair, I'm a guy who can slow traffic and make people faceplant into sidewalks.
Without hair, I'm also a guy who can slow traffic and make people faceplant into sidewalks.
But for a very different reason.
You hair-people wouldn't understand this, but not all men are born with domes shaped like Jason Statham.
Some of us have alien skulls straight out of the worst Indiana Jones installment.
Tall grass hides the tiger, and I wish that my tiger was forever hidden. But now it will be exposed, rawr! and I cannot help but feel that my existence will never be the same again.
The worst part is that no one knows my pain.
My colleagues have no clue. As I mentioned earlier, I do brain stuff, and they didn't even notice that my hairline was crumbling like a front line in a battle against a horde of Uruks, ever in retreat.
My family and friends also have shown apathy toward my predicament. They seem to think that I was never beautiful in the first place and don't understand what the "big deal is with all this hair grief."
My past romantic partners have informed me that I was never really their type appearance-wise, and I shouldn't spend so much time worrying about it. Apparently, the only reason they liked me in the first place was because of my "personality" or some other ineffable, abstract thing.
I'm at a loss as to whom to speak with about this pain that shatters my soul. No one understands.
So I can only speak to you, my dearest hair shafts, of which so few remain.
Farewell my beloved, Pantene-commercial-worthy locks.
Farewell my cute, adorable follicles.
Our moments together will be held tightly in the cozy places of my heart.
I will miss you when you are gone. May you rest in eternal peace.
August
Edit: I've just been informed of stem cell therapy. Brb.