No.
Really.
Swear.
I go to the barbershop and I tell the disinterested stylist with the Navy tattoos and toothpick to press down real hard on the top so I look like Sean Connery entering his dotage. Why, in real life, I have a complete, full, thick manly-man head of hair. I just have it cut so it’s real short — baldish-looking, if you will — on the top and longer on the sides.
Granted. With that little bald Friar Tuck thing going, the way I wear my hair makes me look like I’m a well-fed member of a monastery.
That would be an interesting experiment for a day — passing one’s self as a monk.
I’d walk around in sandals and a UPS-brown burlap robe all day, sporting a serene expression, palms held upward. I’d bet people would give you a lot of free stuff.
“Brother Boston,” says the waitress at the Way Station. “Could we offer you a free pineapple burger, two bags of chips, on the house?”
I’d scratch the top of my head, which is easy to reach with no bothersome hair in the way.
“Oh, gosh. I couldn’t, possibly,” I’d say. Pausing for a moment. “Well. I guess my not accepting your free pineapple burger would be getting in the way of you being charitable. And that could be construed as sinly. What the heck. Bring me the burger. And a Coke. And a slice of that blueberry pie while you’re on that side of the restaurant.”
As a monk, I could play basketball with President Obama.
I’d make a nifty assist to Barry and he’d shake my hand warmly and say, “ Thanks, brother-brother.”
I’d only have to say “brother” back once because Mr. Obama isn’t a monk.
Surely, with His Holiness in office, there must be some federal bailout for my hair, some grant, some rich person, perhaps, to blame.
But, I digress.
Male Pattern Baldness.
There may be a cure.
Researchers have isolated two genes behind how and why we guys grow hair.
One gene merrily pumps out information and direction, cheering on the body to grow follicles. The other, for some unknown reason, kicks in and orders all this growth to cease and desist.
It’s sort of like the Federal Reserve Board, only with hair instead of money.
According to Reuters, a huge international conglomerate, the Japan-based Lion Corp, announced that they’ve discovered a chemical that comes from plants, called 6-benzyl aminopurine, which can quite possibly grow hair again.
I wasn’t at this particular press conference, so I’m at a disadvantage. But if I’ve got a secret chemical formula, I wouldn’t be blabbing the name of it around. You could go down to Rite-Aid and buy a 55-gallon drum of the stuff along with a turkey basting brush and start lathering your way to thick hair beautifulness.
Of course, maybe you’re not supposed to baste your noggin with 6-benzyl aminopurine. Maybe you drink or inject it. I guess it would be nice to know how much you’re supposed to take, too. Not that I’d ever tamper with how Nature has abandoned me, but I’d hate to take the stuff and end up looking like Cousin It from the Addam’s Family or John Green over at College of the Canyons or certainly Dr. Jekyll’s darker companion, Mr. Hyde.
What would happen if you spilled 6-benzyl aminopurine on your pants? People might think you’re wearing chaps. I suppose if you started growing hair on your slacks, could you start walking bow-legged, hook a thumb in your belt and start saying, “Why, howdy, ma’am…” a lot.
What happens if, accidentally, a large amount of the potion splashed onto your hands?
Well.
On the bright side, you wouldn’t have to wear gloves during Newhall’s unforgiving winters.
On a sadder note, you wouldn’t be able to smile winningly across the Thanksgiving dinner table, yell “Hi, MOM!” and wave.
I don’t know what I’d do with a large Viking’s nest of hair again. I’ve got my morning ritual pretty well timed. I use a warm washrag for 4.5 seconds to not comb, but flatten the sparse evidence that I am still a mammal.
Think of the money a full head of hair would cost. Besides buying tanker trucks full of 6-benzyl aminopurine, I’d have to invest in Brylcreme and a hair dryer, cream rinse and what’s that other hair stuff called?
Shampoo?
It’ll never replace my bar of Lava.
Hmmm.
“Lava,” I growl, like Seinfeld saying “Newman!”
Maybe that’s why my top follicles went south.
Hmmm again. Maybe there’s a lawsuit there. I could go after Lava for not having sufficient warnings on their grease-cutting soap and have suffered a few billion in emotional damage and lost wages from washing my hair in the stuff.
All those years of shampooing with pumice.
Which no one can say without sounding gay.
Go ahead.
Try it.
John Boston has earned 119 major awards for writing stuff. Besides The Mighty West Ranch Beacon, his work appears in the prestigious thebostonreport.net just about every darn day. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon. Read Boston’s daily blog, his Daily English Muffins, the Adventures of Job Hunter and more of John Boston’s award-winning commentary on thebostonreport.net