There’s a guy on stage right now. He’s young, compared to me, probably 26, and he has a hint of a bald spot. It’s not gonna get better. It’s just gonna get worse.
I have a kinship with my fellow balding man. I think it’s funny. Not so much when it started happening to me at 28. God is cruel, if he exists, no doubt. You just start scratching the surface of knowing who you are, then you look in the bathroom mirror one day and realize, what the fuck?!?! That looks thin up there.
The moment I realized I needed to shave my head, to just give up the charade, was when the booker told me a couple years ago that a woman was describing me to him, and she goes, yeah, he’s the bartender, balding. THAT’S IT.
End of hair story for me.
From my heart to yours,
Clint Curtis. Bartender.