The Rock of the Dome

I've become mildly obsessed with the idea of shaving my head. No, don't worry, I probably won't do it. People have been reminding me that my hair's my best feature for about ten years, now, and I'm not that self defeating. A little self-defeating, sure. But not that self-defeating.

In any case, I'm not sure whether it's my undiagnosed (but unquestionably existent) trichotillomania, whether it's a symptom of a general disgust with the body, or whether it's just a cry for sensation—I'm sure those three are all related anyway. But still, every time I feel the weight of my hair, or the itch of my dandruffy scalp or the faint presence of the buildup of oils and junk from conditioners galore...I just think of how glorious it would be to be free. To turn this bizarre stretch of skin into normal skin. To expose it to all of the elements: sun, wind, water, a rough towel.

Of course then I'd be stuck with a bald head, which isn't so bad in itself—I'd enjoy the freedom from hair for a good long while—but it does mean I'd either have to keep it bald or wait for it to grow in. And then I'd have short hair. Blech. I'd have over a year of hair that doesn't even hang down from my head. I really don't think that's my look.

Maybe I could invest in some ultra-exclusive scalp treatment, where they could make my hair stick out and just go over every inch with some tool that treats my scalp with heat and rubbing and a little UV. That could be really good.