Posted in The Bookish Life

The Bald and the Beautiful

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.

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A man so secure in himself he would sit in a tub full of pink twinkle lights until I got the exact right exposure.

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A man who doesn’t wear hats indoors but will on occassion wear a spider.

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And sometimes a cone.

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But always looks at me like this:

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Even when I shaved my own head.

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And even when it grew back in like this.

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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. 

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