I have a gripe with beauticians, or barbers, or haircut ladies—call them what you will—who lie to me about my balding. “It’s just that you have really fine hair,” they say.

Bullshit, I say. I’m balding. Try to hide it, please (without making it look like I’m trying to hide it). But don’t lie to me.

There are women I’ve met, who insist balding doesn’t matter to them. Perhaps it is an absurd notion to them that I might want my hair around for a reason besides its ability to attract women. But maybe, just maybe, I miss having a head of hair. Maybe I want some shelter from the sun. Or maybe I’m just tried of picking hair out of my drain cover.

I try to take solace in the few bald white guys whom people think are cool. Hunter S. Thompson. David Beckham. But then I get bogged down. Jason Alexander. Art Garfunkle. This guy:


(So it could be worse, I admit.)

During my last haircut, I made some comment that things were really going south on top of my head. She sighed and said, “Well, you just do with what you have.” She’d heard it all before. It was nice to get an honest response, though. I gave her as big a tip as I could afford.

Something different, but related….

This post started as a top five gripes post, but I couldn’t think of a fifth. Here are the other three.

Ostensibly automatic doors that say, “in case of emergency push to open,” but don’t open automatically, forcing you to stand in front of it, pondering the embarrassment of tripping an alarm, until you gather the courage and sense to open it yourself.

When sugar free and fat free mean flavor free (which is always).

Neckties. If you so much as spill anything short of water on one, it’s done. If you coil it around your hand, and a thread catches on a burr or callus on your hand, it’s done. If you bought a trendy color, by next season, it’s done and looks as fashionably viable as Depends undergarments.