I've had to admit that I'm going bald.

For a while, I tried lying to myself. "Paul, you have more hair than ever." Yeah, right, like I'm going to believe someone with a bald head.

I tried all of the old standbys to keep the hair from going -- scalp massage, hair tonic, ritual sacrifice, prayers to Saint Kuelbahl, the patron saint of balding men. I've increased my protein intake, decreased my hair combing, lather rinsed and repeated repeatedly.

Nothing works. I'm still getting more and more face every day. It's getting to the point that I'm afraid to drive down Bald Hill Road.

There's this magical stuff called Rogaine. Scientists worried about their own hair loss found that 20% of men who use it regrow hair. They also found that 15% of the men who were taking a placebo regrew hair. That means that 75% of regrowing hair turned out to be believing that something will regrow hair. Faith healing. I don't have to spend big money on a lifetime supply of Rogaine, I can go to a tent revival service and have my faith restore my hair.

Rogaine isn't supposed to work on me. It works on the circular bald spot that is on the crown of the head. I don't have a bald spot. You'd think that something, anything, in my life could work normally, but nnnnooooooo, I get to go bald from the front to the back, exactly the kind of baldness that the Rogaine package describes as "tough tootie pattern baldness".

That receding hairline just keeps creeping back like the glaciers at the end of the last ice age, or more like how the loose end of a plastic bread bag pulls back from a hot toaster.

Not that I worry about it. At least, I try not to worry about the day I find more hair in the shower drain than on my head. I try not to worry that I'll soon be reduced to wearing a baseball cap indoors and brushing my hair with a towel. After all, it happened to my older brothers, and they've come to grips with being bald and hairless and bald. I don't worry. I bought a progressive relaxation tape. No, it's not some kind of new-fangled relaxation that says that the old, non-progressive way was... uh... regressive. It's where a calm voice tells me to relax my toenails, then my big toe, then my next toe, eventually working its way up my body to my neck and face. I get more and more relaxed, right up until the voice says "Now relax your hair folicals and tell them to let loose. Relax their tight grip on your hair." For some reason I tense up at the thought of my treasonous hair folicals laying down on the job and releasing those last remaining hairs.

Maybe I'll get a fake-looking, poorly fitting toupee like Buddy Cianci. I'm too realistic to belive that a comb-over fools anyone. I had one college professor who coiled one long strand of hair from the back of his head around and around his bald top. There was a guy down the street when I was a kid who combed his eyebrows over his head.

No, I guess in another few hair-cuttings, I'll end up going for the Bruce Willis look -- "Give me a buzz, Floyd, I'm tired of watching it go. Yippie yii-oo kaii yaaa!"

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Then I'll stare at myself in the mirror and sigh, thinking of the days that hair cuts were a waste of money, not because the hair wasn't long enough to cut, but because no one in the commune cared how long your hair got.

Sadly, I didn't have long hair in those days. Army brats lived with crew cuts when the rest of the world was enjoying free sex, drugs, rock and roll, and long hair. I hit my hairy peak in the 70's, in the days of blow-dried hair and disco. I never really had long hair like the hippies of the 60's.

And now, I guess, I never will.

Peace.

About the author, Paul Pence: Not a life-long Rhode Islander, Paul got to Rhode Island as fast as he could. He has 25 years of writing experience and numerous publication credits including the Providence Journal, the East Greenwich Magazine, Weissmann Travel Reports, Travel Lady Magazine, Jackhammer, Your Skin and Sun, TravelNotes, TexWoman, and many others.

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