The shape of Robert Duvall’s occipital bone is really quite exceptional. Especially so when offset with his cavalry hat tipped jauntily forward in Apocalypse Now. Oh, and I am forever grateful for the casting director that said “Off with his hair!” when they selected Tom Hardy for Bane. I just don’t go in for piles of man vines sprouting out of their hat holders. And when I am reading, I tend to discard author suggested physical descriptions for my own preferences. This is really a problem since I’ve been trying to develop a good set of recommendations for Young Adult books for when I cover in my friend’s bookstore. Basically I am giving the Friar Tuck to every lovesick teen boy in these books. And its starting to look like Edo-era Japan in here. (By ‘here’, I mean ‘inside my head’. That is where you are right now. I know sweetie, it will all be over soon.)
I blame my adolescent exposure to the shimmering pate of Captain Picard and the faintly fuzzy fore-dome of Ed Harris. For me, bald has always been the pinnacle of masculine appeal. This was clearly an untenable situation for a 16 year old girl. Bald peers wouldn’t start showing up for a few years and the 90s grunge was thick with shoulder length manlocks. There were always the more serious Jr ROTCrs that took the ‘high and tight’ like a religion. Oh how I pined.
My high school girlfriends teased me for my off-brand passions. So I carted them around secretly. What a sad world it was. Gloriously bald men hid themselves permanently under bad hats like trilbys and pork pies and wore ball caps indoors like heathens. I fumed at the shudders from women who refused to date a bald man. I cursed her with bunions and an early onset potbelly that that disobeyed the will of the Core Blaster 3000.
I was a goner when I met ‘He of the Plain Pate’, tanned from the forehead back. Oh now here was a specimen! He hid himself from no one! The proof was on his puddin’ head. It wasn’t just the bald, but the bold! A man who bravely faced his supervirginity at the RHPS.
A man so secure in himself he would sit in a tub full of pink twinkle lights until I got the exact right exposure.
A man who doesn’t wear hats indoors but will on occassion wear a spider.
And sometimes a cone.
But always looks at me like this:
Even when I shaved my own head.
And even when it grew back in like this.
I’m sorry teenage heartthrob in the pages. I skip right past those passages of your raven locks and pluck out your wavy tendrils. So far none of the heroines have noticed.