Scientific research shows that women see bald men as older. However, there is also ample evidence that any given female set of eyes can interpret baldness as intensely arousing. The problem is, this is on an individual basis, whereas the studies look at societal attitudes. In one a study, researchers made two campaign flyers. One had a picture of a 35-year-old bald man, the other the same man but with hair. A much higher percentage of people favoured the guy with hair. There hasn’t been a bald president since Eisenhower. This is changing, mostly because attractive men like Michael Jordan or Bruce Willis are taking back their baldness.”
Quote stolen from the Brotherhood of Bald People Website
Introduction
As the rain batters the window my eyes are fixed on the glowing television ten feet away, snugly nestled in the corner of the room. I’m watching another American teen drama series involving the bad kid turned good at the high school with the usual array of gorgeous girls sauntering up and down the halls clutching the latest class assignment.
In the background are various types of person ranging from nerd to jock, but something else has occurred to me. Not wanting to jump to conclusions I swiftly flick through the channels to find a rival show and sure enough the results are the same.
The actors are all nice to look at. This makes sense. People expect young Americans who live in a privileged environment to look good.
That’s not all though. I’ve become so consumed by the plot, wondering if the boy will ever get the girl whilst at the same time pining for the class geek to overcome the jeers from the back of the classroom that I’ve let something slip.
Hair. They all have wonderful hair. Long and flowing, short and thick. Unruly and untameable. It’s so beautiful.
Maybe I’m overreacting a little but as I clutch hold of a bunch of pop culture magazines I suddenly see that this is a conspiracy no-more. Models, celebrities, chefs- everyone seems to have full heads of luscious locks.
Smug musicians that write songs claiming mistreatment and years of loneliness, yet their hair is still sculpted by their model girlfriends as they lie in the park. Some even shave it down to the bare minimum but are still left with an intimidating material protecting their dome that no missile on earth could penetrate.
Now I’m on to the main news, searching for some normality amongst this madness but all I can find are the most popular politicians surrounded by the adoring public as the wind does little to ruffle their hair.
The sports report comes on, and since Zizou has retired from football I can only see the new breed of talent, whether it’s a little wizard in Spain or a lightening fast muscular maestro here in England but they both sport hair galore, much like their equally impressive team mates.
And so after years of ignorance I fall back on to the sofa and stare up at the ceiling. The words form in my head and repeat themselves over and over again.
“Everything I’ve worked for has been in vain. The world is being taken over by people with lots of hair.”
Can You Really Trust A Bald Man?
In the early nineties, a small town in the South of Denmark ran a rehabilitation program for ex-convicts.
The project was community based and involved the placing of former felons within ordinary households (those who were prepared to take them in), allowing them to ease back into society. There were mandatory check ups with counsellors and the police but on the whole the program recorded astounding results with only four percent of criminals re-offending within five years.
In 1994, an elderly but by no means fragile lady by the name of Martha took two such former felons under her own roof. Jan was a thirty four year old man who had served time for a robbery (he has always proclaimed his innocence) and Karl was twenty seven years old, an ex-addict who was jailed for his part in a fraudulent scam that ended up costing a prominent government official a lot of money.
Both men were six feet tall and even shared similar features which lead many to think they could be brothers except for one minor detail. Jan sported a full head of thick dark hair and Karl was bald as a coot.
On a cold February morning in 1994, the woman who’d taken both Jan and Karl under her roof, Martha Tolland, made a call to the local police to reveal her suspicions that various household items, including a watch that held great sentimental value, had gone missing. A formal investigation began that involved numerous one to one interviews with both of the accused.
It was during Karl’s third interview that officers noticed something forming on top of his bald head. A shimmering glean of sweat presented itself and started to trickle downwards, running over his nose and occasionally flowing into his eye causing him minor discomfort. What made the officers even more bemused was that the room temperature had been set on a very low setting, in an attempt to keep the atmosphere calm and rational.
Karl was arrested and charged with robbery, and it wasn’t until 1998 that Jan confessed his part in the crimes and duly began serving his time back in prison. As it turned out, Jan had orchestrated the thievery one step at a time, working alongside Karl and slowly amassing a collection of invaluable antiques.
Due to his thick mop of hair, Jan was able to endure the pressure of his questioning and avoid any sweat trickling down his face like droplets of pure guilt. Instead he was able to flip his hair into a side parting or slick it back like a Mexican, making full use of the base sweat stored within his dark roots. If anything, the intense questioning only gave Jan more style and confidence.
A statement read by Karl’s lawyer revealed a certain disdain for the way the police handled their enquiry.
“As a bald man Karl has realised that society can be quick to judge, and in this case it proved to be an error that landed him a sentence that I felt was both unjust and morally inexcusable. Although my client can now look to the future knowing that justice has been served it is nothing more than a bitter sweet victory, and until society learns to accept bald men , we may never move forward.”
The rehabilitation program has since been disbanded.
The Awakening
As a teenager with hair, before I answered my calling as a defender of the bald, I had a strict routine in place. Hair is there to be toyed with, and never trust anyone who thinks otherwise.
It is the single most important defining feature anyone can have, and I’ve seen it used to maximum effect in my years working undercover.
Spies have been able to walk straight through a room of enemies undetected simply by changing their parting or adding gel/wax/paste to create an altogether different look. Sportsmen have been able to alter the direction their hair grows in order to obtain maximum benefits from the wind direction, either increasing their speed or controlling it.
One method I employed at school with the sole purpose of attracting the opposite sex was the ‘dry by night.’ The beauty was in its simplicity.
After a hard day I would take a shower and wash my hair, but instead of drying it, I’d spike it up and head straight to bed. With consistent turning over throughout the night my hair was pressed from either side as it dried creating the ultimate Mohawk the following morning.
It wasn’t just any Mohawk, it had real style and calibre to it, confusing my opponents and sending the opposite sex into delirium. The only problem was I’d become a target. Bald people resented me and those with hair felt I was making a mockery of their gift.
As I left a Chinese restaurant on a school night, I was approached by a young and attractive lady who claimed to have lost her wallet. Naturally I wasn’t going home without helping her recover the item so I instructed my girlfriend at the time to wait in the car with the engine running and the heater on.
As I followed the damsel in distress round the corner my hair told me that something wasn’t quite right, but I put it down to irrational paranoia.
There was no wallet around the corner. Instead I came face to face with fifteen members of the notorious ‘Hairs Angels’, who are well known for their dedication and belief in keeping hair modest and tidy. I was deemed ‘dirty’ for my ‘dry by night’ method, word had clearly spread about town that I was pushing the boundaries with my innovative hair style.
Although I managed to put up a fight I was no match for the men that came at me with everything from scissors to the very latest clippers from Japan. I had to respect the quality of their ambush, they had been trained well.
Paranoia is there for a reason. It’s what keeps you safe. Anxiety is what helps you survive. All of these supposed negative emotions are the reason we’re the number one race on the planet. I forgot that on this particular night.
During my recovery I slowly began to realise there was more to life than my Mohawk, but I was still searching for answers. I read with some interest about how hair loss can be associated with stress, paranoia and anxiety.
I began to wonder whether it was really my hair telling me something was wrong before I was attacked or whether it was some kind of bald premonition. Was this a sign that my hair was not as thick and funky as I thought? Was my imminent baldness trying to keep me safe?
Who is Trey Bald?
To avoid any confusion I am now presenting you with a brief introductory letter.
My name is Trey Bald and I have been losing my hair since the age of twenty three.
In this book you will notice that I have occasional contrasting views on male pattern baldness. I would like to stress that I did indeed suffer psychologically as a result of my losing hair, but along the way my incredible journey that has taken me all over the world has left me a better person.
I now possess a far deeper understanding of baldness and what it is, so much so that the state of my own hair is irrelevant in comparison to the information I have collected over the last six years.
I have worked for a classified government special ops team in order to put a stop to terrorism conducted by individuals for reasons that involve men’s hair or a lack of hair. I can’t be any more specific than that.
If the motivation was hair related, my team was called in. In many cases I have left names out. This is to protect the innocent and to avoid breaking the law. All of my work is highly classified and as a result of this there is a lot of information that I’m unable to share with you.
As well as recounting a few stories from missions that I’ve undertaken, I have included some more personal information and thoughts. This is because I want you, the reader, to know that as well as being a highly trained agent, I’m still just a human being. Just like you, but a little bit better at most things.
As you read on you will learn about my ever changing life, whether it’s a personal relationship or my career, there’s rarely a dull moment.
I try to have no personal standpoint or opinion on baldness (but I’m only human, and my emotions can cloud my judgement at times). It is whatever it is to the beholder. Some people feel cursed, whilst others live their lives without missing a step.
I hope that some of my experiences and knowledge will be useful to you, and most importantly, educate you on the depths of male pattern baldness.
With warm regards,
Trey Bald
The Unstoppable Power That Is Hairnergy
Hairnergy is a complicated mix of energy that combines the emotion of anger, often thought to be the rage that a bald man feels at losing his hair, and adrenalin. It is an energy only possessed by those suffering from male pattern baldness and if not controlled can have devastating consequences.
Some cases have shown that the subjects strength and pain threshold can increase by up to one million percent.. Hairnergy is created by consistent thought, usually worrying, over the state and advancement of one’s hair loss.
When I was starting to lose my hair I had a conversation with my sister who enthusiastically described a good friend of hers who’d been using the hair loss drug Propecia.
I was immediately interested, more so by the fact that this was a guy my age who had clearly been feeling the same sense of loss as myself but had actually taken the plunge and invested some serious capital into treating it. Apparently he had some serious hair going on, the thickest of the thick, so I was excited to meet him
The following week I e mailed him. I had many questions about the drug and wanted to make sure everything was one hundred percent safe before I committed myself. I was surprised at the speed of response and the sheer detail that every one of his e mails contained. Some were like essays with well over a thousand words. This lad had done his homework.
A few weeks later and we set up a meeting. I entered the café at around eleven a.m. on a Saturday morning. It was December, and the streets were cold and icy.
The meeting point was remote to say the least, I couldn’t quite believe I was in London, it was more like Chernobyl. My new friend was already seated towards the back of the café, sipping what looked like a white chocolate mocha, though I couldn’t be too sure. With a reassuring smile, he beckoned me over to the table and ordered a peppermint latte, one of my favourite drinks, which arrived within ten seconds.
“So Trey, tell me about your hair loss.”
Straight to business. Something was wrong. No one can make a peppermint latte in under ten seconds. How did he know I’d order a peppermint latte?
“How often do you think about your hair?”
Another question. If I didn’t know any better I’d have considered him a little desperate for information.
“Drink your latte, it’ll get cold.”
I stood up.
“Who the hell are you,” I whispered, staring at the smiling man in front of me.
“Calm down Trey. It will be a lot easier for you if you just relax.”
I never felt the blow to my head. When I came round I was in a large white room full of beeping machinery, with wires strapped on to my head. Lots of wires. A familiar looking man entered the room. It was him. My new friend turned enemy.
“Tell me something Trey, do you often meet up with strangers you e mail?”
Keep him talking I thought. The first trick in the book is to make the enemy feel in control of the situation.
“I don’t know what you want from me. But please, let me go, I’m not going to go to the police. I just want to stay alive.”
The man looked faintly amused. Approaching the computer in the corner of the room, he sat down and studied the figures flying across the screen. Muttering some kind of curse under his breath he picked up the phone next to the keyboard and relayed his information.
“Quinn, it’s me. I’m afraid I’m not getting any results. Wherever he’s keeping it, he knows what he’s doing.”
He hung up the phone and strode towards me with some purpose. The few minutes he’d spent away from me were all that Trey Bald needed to take affirmative action. I’d already managed to free both hands using my hairnergy.
“I don’t know how you’re doing it Trey, but you are going to tell me exactly where…..”
He never had a chance to finish his sentence as I kicked downwards onto the side of his left kneecap. Howling in pain he started to fall to the floor but not before I’d followed up with a swift blow to his solar plexus with the palm of my hand.
I moved quickly to the computer to check on the results. Thankfully, there was no evidence pointing to the location of my hairnergy, but I had an even bigger problem now.
Who was Quinn and why had he hired someone to kidnap me? Was my own sister involved?
Remembering exactly what Jason Bourne did in the first Bourne film, I grabbed a map of the building from the wall and tried to find the best exit. I was already feeling drained from the use of my hairnergy but I ghosted up the flight of stairs and found an exit on the second floor.
The cool London snow broke my fall as I jumped from the window and in seconds I was beyond capture, much to the anger of the four armed men that had been alerted to my escape.
I looked back at them knowing they couldn’t take a shot at me. It was broad daylight and if any of the events were to become public then whatever operation they were running would have been seriously compromised.
Once I had reached the safety of the streets I immediately purchased some sugar free gum, but I had too much adrenalin to chew. I needed to calm down. I found the closest Borders book shop which also had a Starbucks and grabbed a vanilla latte before heading to the biography section to read about Al Pacino.
The Girl From Biarritz
After the stress and trauma of the betrayal I needed to get away for a week in the sun. I chose Biarritz after hearing good stories about the surf down there.
When you’re overlooking a never ending beach full of Mediterranean beauties and clear sea it’s hard to imagine a better life and even harder to imagine what it’s going to feel like when you’re sitting on a rickety plane heading back to the real world of checking e mails and watching the news.
I didn’t have time to prepare myself for the girl who was about to bring me the bill for my coffee but I definitely didn’t waste any time in trying out my French and lining up a drink for the following day.
The funny thing about people who consider themselves shy when it comes to asking someone out is that when you see someone that has such a profound affect on you all of those old beliefs fly out the window.
It didn’t really matter what was going to happen, all I knew was that I would be taking this girl out before I left in forty eight hours. Wait, forty eight hours. That’s not enough time. I was going to need the big guns.
Throwing things left and right I tore into my cupboard with a vengeance and pulled out the deadly blue and white seventies style evening shirt with a prominently large collar. It was an ideal weapon for deflecting away from the thinning hair on top of my dome.
The blue could bring out my eyes, the collar would take care of the hair and the professional fit would ensure I looked ten times more athletic than I actually was.
And so began my first date in Biarritz. I managed to find out the all important details. Her name was Marie. She was twenty years old, aspired to be an actress and had an older and younger sister.
The older sister was currently having trouble coming to terms with the fact that her boyfriend was leaving for Australia and the younger sister was just the younger sister.
We finished up our drinks and went for a long walk around the island taking in some of the breath taking views and conversing in an interesting mix of English, French and Spanish.
There was debate over the acting prowess of Edward Norton plus my usual tale of meeting Mixmaster Mike from the Beastie Boys which I’m not sure she fully understood. I even made it back to her flat to meet the younger sister, but eventually the time had come to head back to my place and let her go to dinner with her older and heartbroken sister.
For one reason or another I lost contact with Marie once I returned to London. Strong evidence points to the fact that I pushed her a little hard by turning up to her café a few times before I left with nothing to say other than show how needy I was.
However, being a true professional I had to know for sure. I had to know that it had nothing to do with her ex-boyfriends incredible hair in comparison with my baby like wisps.
A few months later I was back in Biarritz and across the road from Marie’s flat in a white unmarked van.
With me I had the usual supplies: a bionic ear that can hear and record sounds from up to three hundred feet away, x2 GSM bugs that make use of the mobile network, x 5 button sized cameras that I needed to place inside the flat and finally an undetectable USB Keylogger that would pull any data from her home computer.
I put my ‘Pierre’ name tag on my black overalls that told the unsuspecting eye I was in the building for a routine gas check up and crossed over the street with my bag in hand.
On the fourth day I left the bed and breakfast and went to the back of my rented unmarked white van. It had been a frustrating three days. My equipment in the back had been playing up and I was seriously considering a letter of complaint to the manufacturers. Furthermore I’d had no results.
She hadn’t mentioned me once in the last three days and I’d only been gone ten weeks.
Just when I thought it couldn’t be any worse I had a life line. My tracking device had intercepted an e mail with the subject “re: English boy”.
How had I missed the original e mail? What had I spent all those thousands of pounds on? I could have simply hacked into her computer myself. I read through the e mail. It didn’t seem to have much to do with me until I stumbled across a few lines mocking my baldness. She had even said what a shame it was considering how good looking she’d found me but that she would never allow herself to be seen in public with a bald man
I knew it. I hadn’t been naïve or paranoid, I was right all along. Heartbroken and tired I switched off the machinery and lay in the back of the van. It had been a long and arduous process, but definitely worth it.
I could return home now, safe in the knowledge that balding and bald men are still in grave danger. Had I not gone to so much trouble, complacency may have slipped in, leading me into a false sense of security and well being.
The following morning I picked the opportune time to break into the apartment and recover the surveillance I’d placed. The van was parked a few streets away and had my ticket, passport and some emergency money.
I worked quickly, this wasn’t the first time Trey Bald had been under pressure and it wouldn’t be the last. By the time I reached the keyboard for my USB, things looked like they were going to go without a hitch.
That was when I heard the footsteps.
I moved like a ninja as the door opened and found a resting place on one of the high beams below the ceiling.
Who the hell was this and why didn’t I know they were coming? It looked like a possible friend who had borrowed a set of keys, but either way they’d picked the wrong place at the wrong time. With all the skill of trained soldier I released my grip and came crashing down on the unidentified intruder.
It was a man, and a strong one, I needed to be quick. Locking him in my sleeper hold I clung on until he slipped from consciousness, before I swiftly moved him over to the sofa. He wouldn’t remember a thing. I grabbed the USB and put it in the bag with the rest of my kit and headed for the door, adrenalin pumping.
Back in the van I knew I’d been careless, and it could have cost me.
On arrival at the airport I selected one of my many wigs for the check in and a different passport. Trey Bald would not be flying today.
I was Robin Bogenhart, a Swedish scientist with curly blonde locks, returning from a brief business trip.
Treatments
Let’s just take a quick few minutes to shed some light on the treatments for male pattern baldness. It’s best to do this now before things get too intense.
For many years now scientists and other like minded individuals have worked hard on finding successful treatments for male pattern baldness. Below are just some of the solutions:
Finasteride
Dutasteride
Minoxidil
Green tea
Caffeine (a coffee a day keeps the baldness away)
Hedgehog agonists
Copper peptides
Scalp massage
Just one of my many undercover assignments included an eight month period in a small town ten kilometres north of Moscow.
My group and I had gathered strong intelligence suggesting that there was an ongoing scam of unproven treatments for male pattern baldness and the victims were paying an extortionate amount of money to receive them.
One such scam involved a clinic that would hang men upside down two metres above the ground with their head placed in a bucket of worms.
The theory behind this was that by hanging upside down, the blood flow could be redirected to the hair follicles whilst the worms gently massaged the scalp, stimulating the hair which would encourage re-growth.
One victim ended up wasting his life savings on the treatment which, needless to say, did not improve his baldness.
It took me six weeks of continuous intelligence gathering that included bugging the phones, obtaining incriminating photographs and tracking all known assailants until I was able to present a case strong enough for a conviction.
The guilty party were lead by a man named Roman, who was a former psychologist. Using his skills, Roman was able to sense vulnerability and stupidity like a shark senses blood in the water. The people stood no chance.
Its cases like this that make me get up each and every day. I have a duty to protect the innocent and the bald.
In another assignment I found myself spending a considerable amount of time in a Brazilian brothel, where amongst the usual services, men were able to have their head sandpapered, in order to remove the upper layer of skin that was preventing hair from getting through.
Bald men were being convinced that their hair was simply trapped and by taking no action not only were they suffering from baldness but the hair that was trapped was steadily making it’s way down and through to the brain with life threatening consequences.
My advice to any aspiring hair person is to take plenty of aerobic exercise and eat lots of wheat based cereals.
The key to hair loss is to lower the levels of DHT (Dihydrotestosterone), an active metabolite of the hormone testosterone and the primary contributing factor to male pattern baldness.
With enough funding, my team and I have been working on a drug aptly named ‘Anti DHT’ which I’m hoping will soon be available in the form of a chocolate bar.
With the expenses it is likely that these chocolate bars will be fairly pricey at first but the goal is to get even distribution on a global scale at affordable prices. 80% of the proceeds will help fund my future operations in the field of Counter Baldism across the world.
A Danish Princess
For security reasons no names other than my own are mentioned.
This is a story of courage under fire, dealing with pressure and true love. It all happened during one particularly hot summer. Whilst working on a separate mission I received an urgent call from the Danish royal family.
One of their own had gone missing after an evening out with friends in Copenhagen.
Normally I would have sent out a special ops team instead of going it alone but there was another motivating factor. The girl in question was someone from my past.
When I was seventeen years old with the classic bed hair look, I travelled to Denmark to visit the Royal palace on a school trip. Like any teenager all I was interested in was trying to buy cigarettes whilst chasing every girl in the vicinity with my friends.
The last day saw us at the Royal palace not really enjoying a one hour tour full of facts and Danish history.
I snuck off for a quick Marlboro Medium (9 mg Tar, 0.9 mg Nicotine) in the palatial gardens.
Finding a nice patch of sun by the rose bush I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes to the warm rays thinking about how carefree my life was.
When I opened them again I found an altogether different view. Before me stood a young girl about my age, so beautiful that the word beautiful didn’t even come close to describing her.
She had brown hair, green eyes and a smile that could break the Devil’s heart. Her skin was so perfectly created that I was scared of anything touching it in case it became blemished or smudged. She looked at me and spoke in a cool tone.
“Who are you?”
I inhaled deeply and blew out a fresh plume of smoke.
“I’m Trey Bald.”
She stepped forward and put her lips millimetres away from mine. I could feel her sweet breath, and I could only assume that she’d used some form of apricot lip gloss given the arousing scent that made my head spin.
“Nice to meet you Trey Bald.”
And with that she turned and walked elegantly into the distance.
Back in the present, I put the phone down and thought the situation over. They had taken my girl. But how did I know the victim in question was the very same girl whose lips I’d nearly touched?
Just recall my story from Biarritz. There is no man more romantic than Trey Bald. I made it my business to find out everything about that girl from the moment she left me.
For years I’d traced e mails, phone calls, received photos. There was not a day that went by that I didn’t know what she was doing.
Until now. I’d become so consumed in saving others that I’d forgotten my first love. How could this have happened?
The threat was simple. She had been taken by a group of extremists who threatened to keep her hostage for up to three months without ever washing her hair.
I just couldn’t stand by and let that happen. Not to that beautiful hair. It deserved to be shampooed and conditioned, curled and straightened, and not with any old product.
With the very best, something like Herbal Essences or Schwarzkopf.
I took the first available flight to Denmark. My team had already managed to trace the incoming terrorist calls and confirmed my location, an abandoned warehouse north of Ǻrhus.
I was going to do this alone.
I saw the first sniper seconds after my first approach. I was only 30 metres away from the building, and he was clearly an amateur, crouching down in the most obvious spot on the roof of an adjacent building.
I spotted some cover ten metres ahead, a large pile of used tyres. Using my newly shaved head I tilted it at a seventy two degree angle deflecting the sun right into my sniper’s sights. I could see him flinch in temporary discomfort and it was all the time I needed to get behind the tyres. I knew he’d lost me and he’d be making the call to his superiors. It didn’t matter. I had all the time in the world.
Opening my bag I took out the giant can of Wella hairspray and attached my small explosive device. It wasn’t much but I didn’t exactly have enough time to pick up the heavy artillery.
The extremists had rushed down to the entrance. I counted five of them, not including the sniper who still held his position. If they had been pros I’d already be dead.
Poking my bald head out once more I deflected another beam of sunlight straight into the sniper’s eyes. In the spare seconds I had, I launched the Wella hairspray explosive right into the middle of my waiting party at the entrance.
The explosion ripped through the yard as I huddled behind the tyres Rolling out from my cover, I made a run for it, but just yards away from the entrance a bullet clipped my leg causing me to stumble. I pulled myself into the warehouse as the sniper came just inches away from hitting me again, this time the bullet ricocheting of the warehouse doors like an out of control squash ball
I was running out of time, so I grabbed a weapon from the debris and limped as best I could up the stairs. She was in the back room, tied to a chair.
I burst in and moved swiftly to untie her. I could tell that she recognised me.
“Your hair……it’s gone?”
“A lot’s changed since I was seventeen. But you’re still as beautiful as I remember.”
“I always knew I’d see you again Trey Bald.”
I ushered her to her feet.
“Please, we don’t have much time. We need to get out of here.”
We moved back through the building towards the stairs and down to the entrance. I had no way of telling where the sniper was or whether he was even in the room preparing an attack. It was my princess who saw him coming though, by the reflection on the back of my bald head. She cried out.
“Trey!”
I spun round as the sniper pounced on me, grabbing my throat trying to close the wind pipe. I struggled to pull the curling irons from my pocket but with my remaining strength I dealt him a blow more severe than he’d ever felt in his short life. We were safe at last.
We spent the night at a cheap hostel, locked in a room until I could arrange safe transportation back to the Royal palace.
It had been two days since she’d washed her hair. Stepping into the shower I found her to be exactly as I’d always imagined, and with a smile she handed me the bottle of Pantene Pro-V
Not the shampoo I’d expected, but this was a moment I was going to enjoy.
The Longing For Belonging
Good Bald
Decent sized head
Prominent facial features
Tan
Designer stubble (bonus)
Bad Bald
Peanut head
Pale complexion
Doughy face
No notable features
Above are the general examples of what people consider to be a good bald man or a bad bald man. Naturally it’s grossly unjust as many people exercise no control over their own genes and what their natural appearance is.
This has led to a great divide in the bald community, and instead of showing mutual respect and support there have been separate factions forming independently which has led to a very high risk of civil war.
Back in the day, the only tension for bald people came from the well known ‘Kill All Bald People’ (K.A.B.P) faction that formed in the late 80’s just outside of San Diego, California. However, there are now independent bald groups that fight their battles not just against groups like the K.A.B.P, but against their own kind.
The most well known rivalry exists between the ‘Good looking bald dudes’ (G.L.B.D) and ‘Bald guys that don’t look good and don’t care’ (B.G.T.D.L.G.A.D.C).
Such is the strength of rivalry between these two particular groups that I had to re-think what I believed in. Perhaps people with hair weren’t the problem. Perhaps the bald community’s biggest problem was with itself. Now that enough people were bald it seemed like human nature to seek out a new reason to join separate sides and wage war with each other.
To make matters worse I learnt of an unprovoked assault on an old friend of mine.
Back when I knew him he was the golden boy of University night life. If you wanted to go somewhere, he was the man to ask.
He ran the door of every fashionable nightclub in the city, and he did it with great humility and style. Everyone knew him, and whether they liked him or not (jealousy is a terrible thing), he was a prominent figure in his endless array of designer clothes
The reason for this senseless attack? His fantastic head of hair.
To this day I’ve never seen anything like it. It was almost like another living being was perched on his head. I used to joke with him about what he fed his hair, which always got a good laugh. I always liked to believe it was a good balance of proteins and carbohydrates.
He was found by a neighbour, battered and bruised just yards from the safety of his house. Next to him was a large pot of extremely expensive hair pomade with a note attached from the B.G.T.D.L.G.A.D.C
This attack shocked the world. I knew action had to be taken quickly as the B.G.T.D.L.G.A.D.C group were using their negative energy and disregard for peace and harmony to destroy everything I’d been working for.
Assembling my team we worked on pulling out one of our moles from the B.G.T.D.L.G.A.D.C. Like many counter terrorist agencies across the world, we had done our research and found real believers. These were people who were willing to give up ten or twenty years of their life until they were needed.
Naturally most of our recruits had come from the Oxbridge circle back in England, the breeding ground of exceptional talent that far supersedes any other. We had initially tried some prominent US set ups such as Princeton and Yale but we were shocked to find that at least 99.1% of the students had full heads of hair.
That would have to be something to question later, but my initial thought was that the unshakable American confidence would be the reason for such blooming and good looking students.
Our source briefed us on the situation with the B.G.T.D.L.G.A.D.C, especially with regards to the assault on my old friend. It appeared that this attack was just the beginning. They had targeted over 100 more University students who work on the most popular nightclub doors, all of whom had supremely awesome hair.
Whilst I knew what it could be like to be standing in the rain as the beautiful girls were ushered straight to the front of the queue I didn’t think that these lush haired men should be punished with physical violence.
After all, if I sported suck locks who knows how different I would have been?
The key was education. We had to stop the recruiting of young and vulnerable kids by the B.G.T.D.L.G.A.D.C. These kids were being brainwashed and some of them still had hair. Our source told us that the group had found a device that could detect male pattern baldness up to five years before it took effect.
This was devastating news as they were no longer restricted to recruiting bald people. They could now plan years in advance.
I have now managed to forge a relationship between my own group and the G.L.B.D where we have reached a mutual agreement to share ALL intelligence as and when it comes in.
By working together we’re confident that we can nullify the threat of the B.G.T.D.L.G.A.D.C and increase our understanding of hair related violence. G.L.B.D
Knowing Your Environment
When working undercover, it’s hard to predict anything at all but you have to be as prepared as possible. This story is during the time I was working undercover to infiltrate a sleeper cell of the K.A.B.P.
I managed to get invited to a celebratory dinner in one of Berlin’s most exclusive restaurants but at the last minute my team were unable to find a suitable wig.
Always prepared to improvise I ran to the shower. Bear in mind, I’m not yet completely bald, but I’m certainly balding, with my fine baby like hair ready to fall out at any given minute. I needed two things.
Tresemmé shampoo with B12 Vitamins and Keratin for straw like/brittle hair.
Urban Elements molding paste- ‘hair thickener that adds definition and volume.’
I was particularly fond of the molding paste which I had discovered in 2003 during a trip to Stockholm, Sweden. It seemed that those Swedes were on to something the world didn’t know about. I’m not so sure I’d ever seen this product in any other country.
Combining the Keratin (an extremely strong protein), B12 and the molding paste I was able to turn my straw like hair into a very believable looking head of spiky, normal, medium/thick hair. The only thing I needed now was for the restaurant to have a dim lighting scheme, preferably candles. Have you ever wondered why everyone looks so good in candlelight? Try it for yourself.
Now remember, I’d never met these guys but I knew how dangerous they were. I was acting as an influential banker from Holland who had certain interests in bankrolling the activities of the K.A.B.P. It wouldn’t be as easy as that of course, it was necessary for me to meet with them so they could learn a little bit more about me.
Everything was fine as we entered the establishment, and I was pleased with the low level lighting. However, as we were being seated, disaster struck.
There were eight of us, including myself and we had the big table in the far corner of the restaurant. What I immediately noticed was that there was one spot on the table that was perilously placed underneath a lamp.
I could not afford to sit there, no matter how good my cover up was with the Tresemmé and molding paste I knew the lamp would destroy it.
As any thin haired man will tell you, never sit directly under a light. The stronger the light the worse the effect but any light above your head will cut through your hairs like a laser and illuminate your scalp like a theatre spotlight. There is yet to be a solution to the problem, unless you are happy wearing a wig.
“Is there a problem Herman? Perhaps you would prefer a different table?”
Damn. They noticed my discomfort. The next ten seconds would determine whether the operation would be a success or a failure. I chose my words very carefully.
“No problem at all. I just enjoy looking at a table before I sit down to eat.”
A forceful grip took hold of my left arm. Hans, one of the more menacing men in the group leaned in close and put his nose to my head taking an enormous sniff. I wondered just how gay we both looked at that moment. He pulled his head back in disgust.
“Keratin!”
The game was over. No thick haired man has any use for Keratin.
But one thing I’ve always been grateful for is the skill and dedication of the brave men and women who work with me in the background. Without their eyes, ears and bravery, I wouldn’t have been able to complete half the missions I’ve done in my time.
“Down, get down! EVERYBODY DOWN!”
Bursting through every possible entrance and even from the kitchen emerged seven bald men wearing black and armed with 9mm Koch MP5’s (a preferred weapon for SWAT teams) and tear gas. Within seconds I was being bundled through the kitchen and out the back door into a waiting Range Rover that sped me off to safety. The mission had failed, but I was still alive.
Blokes And Mirrors
Shamus Baldspotonius- A condition whereby an individual feels deeply ashamed of his/her bald spot, usually located on the crown of the head.
All it takes is a fleeting glance. But the ramifications can be huge. For me it all started a year or so after the initial teasing about my hair loss began. I started to become more aware of my problem and as a result I noticed things that before were nothing but dust in the wind.
The dream I have is always the same.
I’m sitting in the barber’s comfortable leather chair as he snips away gently at my scalp. There is not really much work for him to do, except for the standard grade two clippers to my back and sides. The same people sit in the background.
There is a clown reading a celebrity magazine, an overweight Chinese man sleeping with drool escaping from a corner of his mouth and a long legged supermodel who has the head of a dog (Labrador).
Towards the end of my haircut I realise what’s going on but I’m frozen to the chair unable to move any part of my body. The sheer fear runs through my chest as I try to control my breathing.
The man cutting my hair stops and brushes me down, his eyes slowly turning red. He blows my head with the hairdryer and I feel the icy chill on my bald spot, as cold as death. The hairdresser is laughing now, a laugh which gets stronger each second until he can hardly contain himself.
Blood pours from his mouth, as he spits out the words.
“Time for the mirror baldy-locks!”
I try desperately to move but I can’t, and he slowly reaches for the mirror and places it behind my head so I have a full view of the back of my head. There is a huge bald spot there, and I look on in horror.
At this point the Clown, Chinese man and dog headed Supermodel are all standing and staring too, laughing and pointing. The laughter is so powerful it almost tears my ear drums but still I don’t wake up.
The last think I see is the impressive selection of hair pomade on the shelf to my right, and I close my eyes and concentrate.
I wake up, coated in a cool layer of sweat, my chest pounding like a jackhammer.
Back in the real world I occasionally caught bald or balding men stealing a last minute glance at me in the street. At first I put it down to my boyish yet slightly dangerous good looks until on closer inspection I realised that the glance was aimed towards my hair.
I concluded that if it was a bald man they were merely recalling a time in their life when they had hair at a similar stage to mine and were no doubt wondering how old I was whilst at the same time predicting just how long I had left before it all fell out.
If it was a man with thinning hair they were simply making a direct comparison, possibly feeling a sense of relief that they were not the only ones out there suffering.
For those of us who are anonymous, particularly me with my double life, it’s not so bad. We can afford the luxury of incredibly cool hats and caps that very often make us look better anyway. But it’s not all smooth sailing. If you have thinning hair, once the hat goes on it can never come off until bedtime (and even then it’s optional). The reason is simple.
The sheer pressure of the hat forces the hair down against the scalp, eventually making it look like someone has put a few sprinkles of straw on your head and tipped a glass of water on top.
Furthermore, for both bald and nearly bald men, if you wear a cap or hat for long enough then in the end the only question going through the heads of everyone (especially potential female partners) is, “I wonder if he’s bald?”
If that is the question then they are bound to assume you’re embarrassed about it. That’s a particular sore point for myself, as I use hats purely on a professional basis. I no longer have the luxury of presenting the real me out there in the open world as years of service have left me with a long list of distinguished enemies.
There are some people who do not have the luxury of disguise. The most obvious example are professional footballers.
Today football has risen to become the most popular global sport, with millions of people from all over the world tuning in to watch the live matches in England, Spain and Italy amongst others.
When you are out there in the middle of the pitch on a rainy night under intense floodlights there is nowhere to hide. The cameras can close in on the top of your head as the rain pelts your bald spot and trickles down over your face like symbolic tears of defeat.