Do All Balding Old White Men Look Alike?
And why I’m a fraud.
A friend recently shared a picture of me jamming with some friends at a night club in Atami, Japan, so I posted it on my Facebook page.
At first glance, I appear to be a normal, average-looking, balding old white dude.
An old friend — whom I haven’t seen in more than ten years — took it upon himself to post a picture of Peter Frampton in the comments without explanation.
I was thoroughly confused. Was my friend implying that my guitar playing is on par with the great Peter Frampton? That didn’t make sense at all. First, Frampton-style rock isn’t my thing. Second, as guitar players go, I’m but an amateur hack who, on a good day, is lucky to hold his own.
So there had to be another reason. To clear up my confusion, I responded to my friend’s post with the following comment:
“I’m missing the connection to this post. Please enlighten me.”
His answer: “You look like Peter Frampton. Just sayin’!”
Before I could respond again, another friend chimed in to say he thought younger me looked “a little like young Luke Skywalker” (Mark Hamill) who, for the record, still has a full head of hair. More baffling is that Peter Frampton and Mark Hamill don’t at all look alike.
Did I mention that Peter Frampton is eight years older than me? And that he’s bald?
My curiosity compelled me to teasingly ask my Peter-Frampton-posting friend if it’s because “we are both balding old white dudes?”
My friend, a balding old non-white dude, responded with a laughing emoji.
And this is where I come clean: I am not sensitive at all about being follicly-challenged because I’m not really bald. I shave my head.
Yes, you heard that right. I am a fraud, a fake baldy!
I’d be remiss not to mention here that, from as far back as my teenage years and through my four years in the Navy, having hair — long hair — was important to me.
With the wisdom of hindsight, I now realize that it wasn’t at all about the hair; it was about bucking authority figures telling me to cut my hair. I know this to be true, as my obsession with long hair disappeared immediately after people stopped telling me to cut it.
And then I hit my thirties. When my hairline started receding.
I consoled myself at the time with the twisted rationalization that I wasn’t going bald — that my face was expanding!
At the same time, my hair started thinning at the crown of my head. And again I rationalized: my cowlick is expanding too!
With my hairline retreating from the front and my cowlick advancing from the rear, I figured it was just a matter of time before the two forces met in the middle to create a barren tundra on top of my head.
I vowed to myself then and there that when the inevitable happened, rather than doing a classic comb-over intervention (which fools absolutely no one), I would embrace my baldness by shaving my entire head. After all, what better way to hide your bald spot than to shave your entire head?
And then something happened. Or rather, it didn’t happen. My receding hairline and cowlick silently called a truce which, in my best estimate, spared the lives of at least a hundred thousand innocent, peace-loving follicles.
And harmony has reigned on top of my head ever since.
To some, this might seem like a fortuitous turn of events. Au contraire!
My march toward minimalism
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become an aspiring minimalist. Indeed, I’d have no problem living in a tiny house. My most cherished worldly possessions today can fit easily into any modest walk-in closet: desk, laptop, printer, headphones, a few choice books with sentimental value, my three beloved guitars (small amp optional), and my comfy futon. My go-to wardrobe would fit snugly in four drawers, and that accounts for three pairs of shoes.
My minimalism also extends to my body. No tattoos, no piercings, no jewelry — my body is a blank slate. (I’ve got nothing against tattoos, piercings, or jewelry, but since everyone seems to be doing it these days, it holds no appeal; my rebellious, contrarian nature pushes me in the opposite direction.)
Over time, I’ve learned that the more I eliminate clutter from my life, the more time I have to spend on what’s important, which naturally raises my happiness quotient.
Who needs hair?
Well, after moving to Hawaii in the mid-2000s, I took yet another step in my minimalistic evolution: I shaved my head. Every. Single. Follicle.
And what a liberating decision that turned out to be! It made me realize how overrated hair was — that throughout the course of my life, fussing with my hair had sucked up way too much of my time and energy, an unnecessary burden I no longer wished to carry.
Being bald had some unanticipated benefits, as well. No need to buy a comb or shampoo; no need to go to a barber; no muss no fuss about fixing my hair in the morning; and absolutely no better way to stay cool in the subtropics. Minimalism at its finest!
I no longer live in subtropical Hawaii, but I’m sticking with the clean-head look. Being bald is a tad chilly even in Japan’s mild winters, but nothing a tightly knit cap can’t remedy.
Which reminds me — it’s time to break out the shears!
So who is my doppelganger?
Do I look like Peter Frampton? If so, my sympathies to poor Peter. It might help somewhat if he’d embrace his baldness and lose the sidewalls. Just sayin’!
Or do I look like Luke Skywalker?
You be the judge.
Either way, the minimalist force is with me. Being bald rocks.
If stories about my cross-cultural triumphs and failures in Japan sound like fun, you can read all about ’em here.
If you are on LinkedIn and would like to connect, please reach out with a brief note introducing yourself. Here’s a link to my profile.
© Tim Sullivan 2023
