One of our wiser poets once wrote, “Give me a head with hair — Long, beautiful hair. Shining, gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen. Give me down to there hair, shoulder length or longer. Here, baby, there, momma, everywhere, daddy, daddy. Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair. Flow it, show it, long as God can grow it, my hair.”

I have not been so blessed. I have suffered from follicular failure since I turned twenty. A close shave (literally) during Army Basic Training at twenty-two finished the job. My hair never recovered.

That did not mean I gave up. Oh, no. If there was a way to restore a long, lush, luxuriant head of hair on my scalp, I would explore it. In other words, I tried everything I could think of to keep the mop on my top.

First, I tried the simple pat-dry of my locks instead of the vigorous towel rub after shampooing. Sadly, no matter which technique I tried, more and more strands of hair decided to call it quits on my cranium.

Next came the Hair Club for Men. After all, the Head of the company was not only the President, but also a member. I called the toll-free number to get my complimentary info packet and waited for my new life to be revealed. And waited. And waited. So, I called again and explained I had never received my information packet. They assured me it would be immediately put in the mail. So, I waited. And waited. And waited.

Having received no satisfaction from the first tier, I called and asked for the Operator’s manager. I was transferred, at which time I explained my plight to the Operator’s boss, who assured me a packet would be sent out post haste (Post Office? Post Haste? Fun!). So, I waited. And waited. And waited.

By this time, I was thinking, “Is there a plot at the Hair Club for Men? A cabal of full-headed gents (the Club President included) wishing to deny me the right to wear hair?” That, friends, I could not stand.

So, I called again, explained I had received no satisfaction on the lower tiers of their corporate structure, and asked to speak to someone above their pay grade. I was quickly transferred to the Corporate Office, at which time, I told myself, there would be some action taken.

The Corporate Rep was nice, and politely listened to my tale of wanting to become a member of the Hair Club for Men, if only someone would send me an information packet. They just as politely apologized for the confusion, took my mailing information, and told me it would soon be on the way.

And so, again, I waited. And waited. And waited. Obviously, the membership packet from the Hair Club for Men never arrived. That is when I gave up my faith in Mankind. Or at least overnight telemarketers.

Could it get any worse? Oh, yes, Dear Friends. Next came the Curious Case of the Hair in A Can. I can already feel the smirks welling on your faces at the thought. Here’s how it works:

Once you enroll in the club (yes, membership is required), you start to receive monthly cans of “hair,” shaded to your natural color. Just shake the can, spray it over your hair, and it appears as if your hair has filled in. Thick, luxurious locks!

As long as you stay inside, that is. Once sunlight hits your pate, it looks like a bucket of colored sand was poured over your head. Laughter from friends and coworkers ensues. And that’s the end to that tragic tale.

I now classify my hair color as “skin tone.” Having come to grips with my shiny dome, I keep it shaved (if I’m not too lazy when I wake up) and make the best of it. After all, it could be worse. I could have a pot belly. Oh, wait…

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Robert Roe