The nicest thing about being bald is you don't need to shower for days. Why is that nice? I like taking showers. If you go camping where there are no showers -- like a 10-day canoe trip into Algonquin Park -- your hair doesn't feel greasy, scraggly and in need of a wash. If you don't want to, you don't need to dip your head in the cold lake waters with the rest of you.
I'm not bald, but I have been, and could be again. So could you.
Another nice thing is a couple days after the initial shave, the nubs feel nice. Some other people like the feel of them, so the baldee gets a double benefit.
It's an experience worth experiencing. Until I shaved my head, I didn't realize what a good insulator hair is. A bald head feels the warmth of an overhead light. It also fails to soften the sting of a low ceiling above a basement stairway. Wait-staff might give you special attention. When that happened, I felt like an imposter.
On a training run through Roanoke, the window of a passing van rolled down and out came a ballcap. "Try this on, baldee," yelled my benefactor. I couldn't tell if he was teasing me or concerned about the beating sun. Someone must have paid good money for that cap at a Hard Rock Cafe. That was the second time. The first time I ran a few track laps with a bald stranger in Salisbury. Before he left, he ran to his car and tossed me a cap that matched his own. "We bald guys need to stick together," he said.
Again, I felt like an imposter, which for me is not unusual. Here I am, supposedly a banking expert, and I haven't been in the bowels of a bank in nearly 20 years. Or a violinist. My fiddle has been resting in the corner since our May Day concert.
"Me, too," says Virginia. "I'm supposed to be developing character, and nothing much has happened in months."
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