Journey around My Head: A Story of My Baldness
By Alejandro Badillo
It happened when I was just 17: my hair, which had never been thick but was quite
abundant, began to slowly disappear. The phenomenon didn’t occur overnight; it
was a continuous and almost invisible process concentrated on my crown that
soon began to worry me. Perhaps it was the implausibility of the situation, or
maybe an absurd denial of fate, but I did nothing—tried no remedy, no symbolic
defense—until one day, I looked at myself in the mirror and fully understood: I was
definitively and irreparably going bald.
Baldness, with a few illustrious exceptions, is not a topic for public or philosophical
discussion. There are no government funds allocated to tackle the problem. We
bald people are not a public health emergency; perhaps the most affected might
seek solace with the help of a psychologist. For the rest of us, the victims of the
hair loss devastation spreading across our scalps, we are left with only resignation
and stoicism to endure the witty remarks, jokes, and nicknames said behind our
backs. In society’s eyes, going bald is a minor incident in life, even though we live
in a world bombarded with utopian models of beauty: athletic bodies, tanned faces,
and, of course, dazzling locks. However, Androgenic Alopecia—the scientific name
for baldness—is just the tip of the iceberg of many unsuspected issues worthy of
thorough exploration.
One of the earliest authors to address baldness—perhaps the first—was Synesius
of Cyrene, a philosopher from Libya and a disciple of Hypatia, the Alexandrian
philosopher. In “In Praise of Baldness”, written in the 3rd century CE, he makes an
exemplary defense of bald people and rebuts another text, “In Praise of Hair” by
Dio Chrysostom, which extols the advantages of long, abundant locks. In the
tradition of essays focusing on seemingly trivial matters, such as Lucian’s “In
Praise of the Fly” and Erasmus’ “In Praise of Folly”, among others, Synesius draws
on diverse sources like “The Iliad” and Egyptian cosmogony to demonstrate that
maligned baldness is, in fact, a sign of wisdom. One of the most curious examples
he offers is that hair and body hair are traits that connect us with animals—a
savage characteristic. Therefore, a hair-free head is a sign of rationality.
Additionally, according to the philosopher, a bare skull mirrors the roundness of
planets, stars, and other cosmic components. A round bald head, indeed,
resembles the surface of a moon marked by small craters, wrinkles, and the
imprints of time. A round skull seems to merge with the aura surrounding the heads
of saints. It is also an aerodynamic surface that reduces air friction and makes long
walks lighter.
Once baldness entered my life, I realized I had to face reality with dignity. Losing
hair between 18 and 20 is not the same as losing it at 60 when youth is just a
memory, and physical appearance takes a back seat. With little to lose, my
university life passed without more upheaval than the usual. Over time, my shaved
head became a part of my identity—the image we have of ourselves and confirm
daily when facing our reflection. Perhaps, I think, losing hair forces us to rethink
ourselves. It is not just about accepting the passage of time but also confronting
the idea that we are fallible, subject to influences and wear that we can barely
decipher. Michel de Montaigne used many embarrassing topics—eating habits,
stomach issues, for instance—that were often kept silent as shameful secrets in his
essays. His interest was logical: although many religions and philosophies teach us
about our spiritual side, our intangible soul, it is undeniable that we cannot ignore
our bodies, our starting and ending point, the vessel we use to move through life.
Yet, despite this importance, in a society obsessed with showing everything, the
body remains a disguise, a dwelling subject to countless social conventions. We
talk and write about food, football, and music, but about our daily experience of
being ourselves, we prefer silence.
That is why baldness feels uncomfortable: it is not a stain you can hide, and, at
least in earlier times, the devices made to conceal it, like wigs and toupees, were
more shameful because they constantly reminded us that we depended on them to
leave the house and face the day. Furthermore, any accident involving them could
be more humiliating and embarrassing than baldness itself, as it suggests we
cannot cope with the issue, that we need others’ approval. Nowadays, technology
has made micro-implants possible, often restoring lost hair. Even with these
advances, the transformation signals surrender, an inability to embrace the new
self-emerging with every lost hair.
Over the years, my baldness helped shape who I am. It even marked my belonging
to a lineage inaugurated by my bald father and grandfather. Phillip Lopate, an
American writer, explores himself in detail in his essay “Portrait of My Body”.
Through his quirks and revelations from watching himself on video, he understands
how his physical traits shaped his personality and character. His height leads to
bouts of arrogance, while his tendency to hunch makes him insecure. For bald
people, there is a premature maturity because the head—the seat of
ideas—presents a vulnerable aspect that must be overcome immediately to avoid
succumbing to lifelong shyness. We bald individuals must rise above and
demonstrate—sometimes with humor or irony—that our lack is a fortunate
accident, that far from cosmetics and trendy hairstyles, we are timeless beings who
remain unchanging before the mirror, watching as other heads gray and hair
becomes scarce, preluding an overly feared old age.
A head without hair has other advantages. One pragmatic benefit, perhaps overly
superficial, is the amount of money saved. As my hair loss became more apparent,
I contemplated the possibility of giving up on barbers entirely. Losing one customer
was a marginal loss for the barbershop I visited every two or three weeks. Eduardo
Galeano, in “The Book of Embraces”, mentions that his barber teased him by
charging only half the service fee. In my case, I must say I never heard an
unfortunate remark from any barber. The jokes behind my back remained mere
curious assumptions, and perhaps an occasional look of pity at my thinning hair
reminded me of my plight.
One summer afternoon, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I bought a
razor, and with a bit of practice, I began to trim the parts of my head that still had
dense patches of hair. With trembling hands and moments of hesitation, I achieved
my goal, though I felt like a sheep shearing itself. However, after a few moments, I
had the sense that by completing this act—this rite of passage—I had discovered
my true self. The other version of me, the young man with hair who occasionally
appears in old photographs, was nothing more than a dream.
About the Author
Alejandro Badillo is a fiction writer and reviewer. He has published the short story
collections “Ella sigue dormida” (Tierra Adentro), “La herrumbre y las huellas”
(Eeyc), “Vidas volátiles” (BUAP), “Tolvaneras” (Cuadrivio), and the novel “La mujer
de los macacos” (Libros Magenta). A contributor to “Crítica” magazine and former
FONCA grant recipient in the short story category, he won the 2015 Mariano
Azuela National Narrative Award for his book “El clan de los estetas” and the 2016
Amado Nervo National Short Novel Award for “Por una cabeza”.
