Sunday Morning Sleepwalker
Written by David M. Muench
One of my favorite Sunday morning pastimes has been to sit at the kitchen table and read the Sunday paper. Well, okay, just the funnies, TV Guide, and the advertisements. I am quite the aficionado of the funnies and not ashamed to admit it.
Several years ago on one average Sunday morning I crawled out of bed, retrieved the paper from the driveway, and began dissecting the hulking mass of paper for My Sections.
There I sat contentedly amidst a Marmaduke and Dennis the Menace World while my brother snored heavily on the sofa in the living room. Everything else - including the empty laundry basket sitting in the kitchen nearby - was oblivious to me.
I didn’t notice my brother stirring from the living room sofa, and I was vaguely aware of his presence as he shuffled into the kitchen.
What happened next snapped me back from Hagar the Horrible to reality. My brother stood in front of the previously mentioned empty laundry basket and proceeded to urinate in it.
I remember thinking to myself: “There is no way in hell that this is actually happening.” Yet as I sat there with the Sunday paper strewn about upon the kitchen table, there he was. I asked him: “What are you doing?” Which of course was one of those Inane Questions, because I knew very well what he was doing.
He was peeing into the no-longer-empty laundry basket.
The Inane Question apparently wasn’t dumb enough, so I presented a painfully self-evident statement: “You are peeing in the laundry basket!”
That basically elicited a groggy twitch of his head, but he continued purging himself. After what seemed like five minutes he finally finished his task, and instead of returning to the sofa he found his way to his bedroom. Why he couldn’t initially find his way to the Officially Designated Toilet is beyond comprehension.
I just sat there staring at the soiled laundry basket in shock. I could not believe that had happened. I finally broke my “That didn’t really happen” spell and walked to the basket to peer inside. Maybe I thought my brother was favoring me with a really good parlor trick and I had to see for myself. As if the smell alone didn’t alert me of the truth, I also had to bump the basket with my foot to see the liquid ripple around in the basket.
I’m not sure if kicking the laundry basket was a test for viscosity or for the speed of the urine ripple rate. I did everything short of tasting it to ascertain if I actually saw my brother “draining the lizard” into the basket.
Struck by an epiphany, I came to the conclusion that yes, it was indeed pee-pee in the laundry basket. My brother had put it there. No mirrors, smoke, or trap doors were involved. He actually urinated into the laundry basket. I also determined that my brother was experiencing a severe yet embarrassing case of sleepwalking.
Cathy, Shoe, and Blondie were momentarily forgotten, and with teenage fervor I began relishing the idea of telling mom what happened. Hey, screw Family Circus and their strange dashed lines all over the cartoon, this was real entertainment.
My mom finally awoke, and right as soon as she stepped into the kitchen I couldn’t hold it in any longer: “Hey mom, Doug peed in the laundry basket.”
She had the expression on her face I’m sure I had when I first witnessed the Great Laundry Basket Defilement. She replied, “What?” I repeated the statement, and she too gazed into the laundry basket.
After several minutes of deliberation she carefully carried the basket into the garage, where she announced “He’s going to clean this out himself.”
A few hours later my brother had awaken, and as he walked out to the kitchen again both my mother and I became very wary. With suppressed relief, we noted that he was actually awake and coherent. Ah, now came the best part. There is a certain joy a younger brother feels when presented with the opportunity to make the older brother squirm with abject humiliation. Unfortunately he seemed apathetic of the situation, but he did clean the laundry basket.
Much to my chagrin the incident had never been repeated (with anybody, ever…thankfully), but that surreal Sunday morning made me look at laundry baskets in a whole new way.
In Loving Memory of Douglas Muench, 1966-1992.
Thursday, August 21, 2003
Revenge of the Dolls
Written by David M. Muench
It was many years ago, I was perhaps five years old, and as usual I was being a nuisance to every other human being in my proximity. Usually my siblings. My sister was assisting my brother with homework in her bedroom, and for some unfathomable reason I was intent on bothering the Hades out of them. That whole "five-years-old" thing I suppose. Exhausted from repeated attempts to get rid of me, they had finally devised a devious scheme of revenge.
After I had left the room once again, my brother and sister had gathered up her dolls and lined them up facing the door. As I returned for a Scheduled Annoyance I noticed the dolls and inquired (as five-year-olds would do) what they were doing there. My sister replied, "They're tired of you coming in here, so they are going to get you."
I of course was torn between denial and terror and ran to mom in the kitchen and informed her of the nefarious doll attack. Mom was attempting to stifle laughter, though at the time I didn’t know this as my mother informed me many years later. Mom told me to go on and play.
As I was reporting the demonic dolls to my mom, my brother and sister proceeded to move the dolls from out of my sister's bedroom and out into the hallway, facing towards the way I would return (if I did).
Frustrated with mom's ennui, I trotted back towards my sister's bedroom and had gotten only about halfway down the hall when I froze in my tiny tracks. Good GOD, my brother and sister were right! The dolls were after me, and they were getting closer!
I let out a shriek of terror and went airborne to my now-perturbed mother and screamed to her that those dolls are gonna get me!
Tired of the mind game, my mother finally put a stop to the advancing dolls, telling an uproariously laughing son and daughter to "knock it off. Now."
So they acquiesced to mom’s demand and stopped scaring the hell out of me. For the time being.
Although I had the last laugh. A few years later my brother and I had a habit of interchanging the heads of my sister's dolls, which provided hours of amusement for us. We’d put Ironman’s head on Barbie and other such nonsense. Not only did my brother and I enjoy watching our sister go from serene to psychotic in a split-second, but also we unknowingly developed cross-gender toys.
We were very strange children.
Written by David M. Muench
It was many years ago, I was perhaps five years old, and as usual I was being a nuisance to every other human being in my proximity. Usually my siblings. My sister was assisting my brother with homework in her bedroom, and for some unfathomable reason I was intent on bothering the Hades out of them. That whole "five-years-old" thing I suppose. Exhausted from repeated attempts to get rid of me, they had finally devised a devious scheme of revenge.
After I had left the room once again, my brother and sister had gathered up her dolls and lined them up facing the door. As I returned for a Scheduled Annoyance I noticed the dolls and inquired (as five-year-olds would do) what they were doing there. My sister replied, "They're tired of you coming in here, so they are going to get you."
I of course was torn between denial and terror and ran to mom in the kitchen and informed her of the nefarious doll attack. Mom was attempting to stifle laughter, though at the time I didn’t know this as my mother informed me many years later. Mom told me to go on and play.
As I was reporting the demonic dolls to my mom, my brother and sister proceeded to move the dolls from out of my sister's bedroom and out into the hallway, facing towards the way I would return (if I did).
Frustrated with mom's ennui, I trotted back towards my sister's bedroom and had gotten only about halfway down the hall when I froze in my tiny tracks. Good GOD, my brother and sister were right! The dolls were after me, and they were getting closer!
I let out a shriek of terror and went airborne to my now-perturbed mother and screamed to her that those dolls are gonna get me!
Tired of the mind game, my mother finally put a stop to the advancing dolls, telling an uproariously laughing son and daughter to "knock it off. Now."
So they acquiesced to mom’s demand and stopped scaring the hell out of me. For the time being.
Although I had the last laugh. A few years later my brother and I had a habit of interchanging the heads of my sister's dolls, which provided hours of amusement for us. We’d put Ironman’s head on Barbie and other such nonsense. Not only did my brother and I enjoy watching our sister go from serene to psychotic in a split-second, but also we unknowingly developed cross-gender toys.
We were very strange children.
"My Naked Pate: the Shiny Happy Head Story"
Written by David M. Muench
As a teenager I was oblivious of any "follicularly-challenged" issues concerning myself. I had hair, damnit. Not only that, I was working out regularly; looking good and feeling good. It wasn't until I was about twenty-years-old when I realized that my forehead began to grow larger. In retrospect I don't recall being overtly ballistic and calling Sy Sperling every day of the week. You know, he's not only the president.
I wasn't really enjoying the scenario, but I accepted it, mainly because my father was bald.
It was a very gradual metamorphosis from having to worry about "bad hair" days to my "Look everybody! It's George Costanza!" days. Sure, I even had my "Gallagher" days when I grew my hair out longer in back as a Last Hoorah, and wondered why I never possessed a Sledge-O-Matic.
Every single man or woman has been gibed by friends with an exorbitant amount of bald jokes. I particularly enjoy when they pretend to fix their "hair" in the reflection of my expansive forehead. Gee, that never gets old. We've pretty much heard them all. Heck, we've even cut ourselves down. We have also retorted with "Yeah, it's a solar panel for a sex machine baby!" Or one of my favorites: "My hair fell off after hitting the headboard too much."
Truth be known, it can be downright painful. All of a sudden we're Lepers. Or at least we feel that we are. Such as the symbolic "Cutting of Samson's Hair" we feel our masculinity or femininity has been torn from our very souls. Yeah, I wouldn't mind having hair like Fabio; and what really irks me is when people that actually do have hair like Fabio shave their heads. It's like they're saying "Ha-ha. Now watch it grow back full and thick! Oooo, look here, chrome dome, a real hairline!"
Yeah, thanks buddy. Here's your handbasket and One Way Ticket. Now get lost.
I've considered using Rogaine or getting a hair transplant, but I didn't. What I did was venture forth to the Realm of the Extreme. No, I'm still a guy. Not that extreme. Last year after an inebriating night of clubbing (no baby seals were hurt) my buddy and I decided that I should shave my head. Naturally anything sounds reasonable to somebody that only an hour ago that night placed a beer label on his forehead saying; "It's the patch, I'm trying to quit."
Wow! After the task was completed, it was a very surreal feeling. I kept rubbing my head, and thinking to myself "Did I really do this?" That next morning I woke up and placed my hand on the top of my head and thought "Oh, man. I really did this!" It took awhile for my family to accept it with open minds, but now they know it's just who I am. My friends were very quick to accept it, telling me that I had the perfect head to be bald, and that I should have done this a long time ago. They also said it looked very sexy (my "female" friends said that thank you); even better than what my head used to look like. That is exactly what I needed. Another amazing thing happened: The bald jokes almost ceased completely. Almost.
I created the name "Shiny Happy Head" with the help of the REM song "Shiny Happy People", which I thought was very apt nom de plume for me. I also have the website "shinyhappyhead.com" The website focuses not on my shiny, happy head, but in making others smile and laugh; as I no longer dwell on being bald. I now like a clean-shaven head, and it's a plus when women at clubs walk by and rub my shiny, happy head. What can I say, apparently it's a good luck thing.
To the guys that are married and lament about losing your hair; get over it! You have somebody! Do you realize how fortunate you are to have someone to share the rest of your life with that accepts you for who you are? Stop focusing on what you don't have, and start appreciating what you do have.
Bald is Beautiful, baby!
Written by David M. Muench
As a teenager I was oblivious of any "follicularly-challenged" issues concerning myself. I had hair, damnit. Not only that, I was working out regularly; looking good and feeling good. It wasn't until I was about twenty-years-old when I realized that my forehead began to grow larger. In retrospect I don't recall being overtly ballistic and calling Sy Sperling every day of the week. You know, he's not only the president.
I wasn't really enjoying the scenario, but I accepted it, mainly because my father was bald.
It was a very gradual metamorphosis from having to worry about "bad hair" days to my "Look everybody! It's George Costanza!" days. Sure, I even had my "Gallagher" days when I grew my hair out longer in back as a Last Hoorah, and wondered why I never possessed a Sledge-O-Matic.
Every single man or woman has been gibed by friends with an exorbitant amount of bald jokes. I particularly enjoy when they pretend to fix their "hair" in the reflection of my expansive forehead. Gee, that never gets old. We've pretty much heard them all. Heck, we've even cut ourselves down. We have also retorted with "Yeah, it's a solar panel for a sex machine baby!" Or one of my favorites: "My hair fell off after hitting the headboard too much."
Truth be known, it can be downright painful. All of a sudden we're Lepers. Or at least we feel that we are. Such as the symbolic "Cutting of Samson's Hair" we feel our masculinity or femininity has been torn from our very souls. Yeah, I wouldn't mind having hair like Fabio; and what really irks me is when people that actually do have hair like Fabio shave their heads. It's like they're saying "Ha-ha. Now watch it grow back full and thick! Oooo, look here, chrome dome, a real hairline!"
Yeah, thanks buddy. Here's your handbasket and One Way Ticket. Now get lost.
I've considered using Rogaine or getting a hair transplant, but I didn't. What I did was venture forth to the Realm of the Extreme. No, I'm still a guy. Not that extreme. Last year after an inebriating night of clubbing (no baby seals were hurt) my buddy and I decided that I should shave my head. Naturally anything sounds reasonable to somebody that only an hour ago that night placed a beer label on his forehead saying; "It's the patch, I'm trying to quit."
Wow! After the task was completed, it was a very surreal feeling. I kept rubbing my head, and thinking to myself "Did I really do this?" That next morning I woke up and placed my hand on the top of my head and thought "Oh, man. I really did this!" It took awhile for my family to accept it with open minds, but now they know it's just who I am. My friends were very quick to accept it, telling me that I had the perfect head to be bald, and that I should have done this a long time ago. They also said it looked very sexy (my "female" friends said that thank you); even better than what my head used to look like. That is exactly what I needed. Another amazing thing happened: The bald jokes almost ceased completely. Almost.
I created the name "Shiny Happy Head" with the help of the REM song "Shiny Happy People", which I thought was very apt nom de plume for me. I also have the website "shinyhappyhead.com" The website focuses not on my shiny, happy head, but in making others smile and laugh; as I no longer dwell on being bald. I now like a clean-shaven head, and it's a plus when women at clubs walk by and rub my shiny, happy head. What can I say, apparently it's a good luck thing.
To the guys that are married and lament about losing your hair; get over it! You have somebody! Do you realize how fortunate you are to have someone to share the rest of your life with that accepts you for who you are? Stop focusing on what you don't have, and start appreciating what you do have.
Bald is Beautiful, baby!
Sunday Morning Sleepwalker
Sunday Morning Sleepwalker
Written by David M. Muench
One of my favorite Sunday morning pastimes has been to sit at the kitchen table and read the Sunday paper. Well, okay, just the funnies, TV Guide, and the advertisements. I am quite the aficionado of the funnies and not ashamed to admit it.
Several years ago on one average Sunday morning I crawled out of bed, retrieved the paper from the driveway, and began dissecting the hulking mass of paper for My Sections.
There I sat contentedly amidst a Marmaduke and Dennis the Menace World while my brother snored heavily on the sofa in the living room. Everything else - including the empty laundry basket sitting in the kitchen nearby - was oblivious to me.
I didn’t notice my brother stirring from the living room sofa, and I was vaguely aware of his presence as he shuffled into the kitchen.
What happened next snapped me back from Hagar the Horrible to reality. My brother stood in front of the previously mentioned empty laundry basket and proceeded to urinate in it.
I remember thinking to myself: “There is no way in hell that this is actually happening.” Yet as I sat there with the Sunday paper strewn about upon the kitchen table, there he was. I asked him: “What are you doing?” Which of course was one of those Inane Questions, because I knew very well what he was doing.
He was peeing into the no-longer-empty laundry basket.
The Inane Question apparently wasn’t dumb enough, so I presented a painfully self-evident statement: “You are peeing in the laundry basket!”
That basically elicited a groggy twitch of his head, but he continued purging himself. After what seemed like five minutes he finally finished his task, and instead of returning to the sofa he found his way to his bedroom. Why he couldn’t initially find his way to the Officially Designated Toilet is beyond comprehension.
I just sat there staring at the soiled laundry basket in shock. I could not believe that had happened. I finally broke my “That didn’t really happen” spell and walked to the basket to peer inside. Maybe I thought my brother was favoring me with a really good parlor trick and I had to see for myself. As if the smell alone didn’t alert me of the truth, I also had to bump the basket with my foot to see the liquid ripple around in the basket.
I’m not sure if kicking the laundry basket was a test for viscosity or for the speed of the urine ripple rate. I did everything short of tasting it to ascertain if I actually saw my brother “draining the lizard” into the basket.
Struck by an epiphany, I came to the conclusion that yes, it was indeed pee-pee in the laundry basket. My brother had put it there. No mirrors, smoke, or trap doors were involved. He actually urinated into the laundry basket. I also determined that my brother was experiencing a severe yet embarrassing case of sleepwalking.
Cathy, Shoe, and Blondie were momentarily forgotten, and with teenage fervor I began relishing the idea of telling mom what happened. Hey, screw Family Circus and their strange dashed lines all over the cartoon, this was real entertainment.
My mom finally awoke, and right as soon as she stepped into the kitchen I couldn’t hold it in any longer: “Hey mom, Doug peed in the laundry basket.”
She had the expression on her face I’m sure I had when I first witnessed the Great Laundry Basket Defilement. She replied, “What?” I repeated the statement, and she too gazed into the laundry basket.
After several minutes of deliberation she carefully carried the basket into the garage, where she announced “He’s going to clean this out himself.”
A few hours later my brother had awaken, and as he walked out to the kitchen again both my mother and I became very wary. With suppressed relief, we noted that he was actually awake and coherent. Ah, now came the best part. There is a certain joy a younger brother feels when presented with the opportunity to make the older brother squirm with abject humiliation. Unfortunately he seemed apathetic of the situation, but he did clean the laundry basket.
Much to my chagrin the incident had never been repeated (with anybody, ever…thankfully), but that surreal Sunday morning made me look at laundry baskets in a whole new way.
In Loving Memory of Douglas Muench, 1966-1992.
Written by David M. Muench
One of my favorite Sunday morning pastimes has been to sit at the kitchen table and read the Sunday paper. Well, okay, just the funnies, TV Guide, and the advertisements. I am quite the aficionado of the funnies and not ashamed to admit it.
Several years ago on one average Sunday morning I crawled out of bed, retrieved the paper from the driveway, and began dissecting the hulking mass of paper for My Sections.
There I sat contentedly amidst a Marmaduke and Dennis the Menace World while my brother snored heavily on the sofa in the living room. Everything else - including the empty laundry basket sitting in the kitchen nearby - was oblivious to me.
I didn’t notice my brother stirring from the living room sofa, and I was vaguely aware of his presence as he shuffled into the kitchen.
What happened next snapped me back from Hagar the Horrible to reality. My brother stood in front of the previously mentioned empty laundry basket and proceeded to urinate in it.
I remember thinking to myself: “There is no way in hell that this is actually happening.” Yet as I sat there with the Sunday paper strewn about upon the kitchen table, there he was. I asked him: “What are you doing?” Which of course was one of those Inane Questions, because I knew very well what he was doing.
He was peeing into the no-longer-empty laundry basket.
The Inane Question apparently wasn’t dumb enough, so I presented a painfully self-evident statement: “You are peeing in the laundry basket!”
That basically elicited a groggy twitch of his head, but he continued purging himself. After what seemed like five minutes he finally finished his task, and instead of returning to the sofa he found his way to his bedroom. Why he couldn’t initially find his way to the Officially Designated Toilet is beyond comprehension.
I just sat there staring at the soiled laundry basket in shock. I could not believe that had happened. I finally broke my “That didn’t really happen” spell and walked to the basket to peer inside. Maybe I thought my brother was favoring me with a really good parlor trick and I had to see for myself. As if the smell alone didn’t alert me of the truth, I also had to bump the basket with my foot to see the liquid ripple around in the basket.
I’m not sure if kicking the laundry basket was a test for viscosity or for the speed of the urine ripple rate. I did everything short of tasting it to ascertain if I actually saw my brother “draining the lizard” into the basket.
Struck by an epiphany, I came to the conclusion that yes, it was indeed pee-pee in the laundry basket. My brother had put it there. No mirrors, smoke, or trap doors were involved. He actually urinated into the laundry basket. I also determined that my brother was experiencing a severe yet embarrassing case of sleepwalking.
Cathy, Shoe, and Blondie were momentarily forgotten, and with teenage fervor I began relishing the idea of telling mom what happened. Hey, screw Family Circus and their strange dashed lines all over the cartoon, this was real entertainment.
My mom finally awoke, and right as soon as she stepped into the kitchen I couldn’t hold it in any longer: “Hey mom, Doug peed in the laundry basket.”
She had the expression on her face I’m sure I had when I first witnessed the Great Laundry Basket Defilement. She replied, “What?” I repeated the statement, and she too gazed into the laundry basket.
After several minutes of deliberation she carefully carried the basket into the garage, where she announced “He’s going to clean this out himself.”
A few hours later my brother had awaken, and as he walked out to the kitchen again both my mother and I became very wary. With suppressed relief, we noted that he was actually awake and coherent. Ah, now came the best part. There is a certain joy a younger brother feels when presented with the opportunity to make the older brother squirm with abject humiliation. Unfortunately he seemed apathetic of the situation, but he did clean the laundry basket.
Much to my chagrin the incident had never been repeated (with anybody, ever…thankfully), but that surreal Sunday morning made me look at laundry baskets in a whole new way.
In Loving Memory of Douglas Muench, 1966-1992.
Revenge of the Dolls
Revenge of the Dolls
Written by David M. Muench
It was many years ago, I was perhaps five years old, and as usual I was being a nuisance to every other human being in my proximity. Usually my siblings. My sister was assisting my brother with homework in her bedroom, and for some unfathomable reason I was intent on bothering the Hades out of them. That whole "five-years-old" thing I suppose. Exhausted from repeated attempts to get rid of me, they had finally devised a devious scheme of revenge.
After I had left the room once again, my brother and sister had gathered up her dolls and lined them up facing the door. As I returned for a Scheduled Annoyance I noticed the dolls and inquired (as five-year-olds would do) what they were doing there. My sister replied, "They're tired of you coming in here, so they are going to get you."
I of course was torn between denial and terror and ran to mom in the kitchen and informed her of the nefarious doll attack. Mom was attempting to stifle laughter, though at the time I didn’t know this as my mother informed me many years later. Mom told me to go on and play.
As I was reporting the demonic dolls to my mom, my brother and sister proceeded to move the dolls from out of my sister's bedroom and out into the hallway, facing towards the way I would return (if I did).
Frustrated with mom's ennui, I trotted back towards my sister's bedroom and had gotten only about halfway down the hall when I froze in my tiny tracks. Good GOD, my brother and sister were right! The dolls were after me, and they were getting closer!
I let out a shriek of terror and went airborne to my now-perturbed mother and screamed to her that those dolls are gonna get me!
Tired of the mind game, my mother finally put a stop to the advancing dolls, telling an uproariously laughing son and daughter to "knock it off. Now."
So they acquiesced to mom’s demand and stopped scaring the hell out of me. For the time being.
Although I had the last laugh. A few years later my brother and I had a habit of interchanging the heads of my sister's dolls, which provided hours of amusement for us. We’d put Ironman’s head on Barbie and other such nonsense. Not only did my brother and I enjoy watching our sister go from serene to psychotic in a split-second, but also we unknowingly developed cross-gender toys.
We were very strange children.
Written by David M. Muench
It was many years ago, I was perhaps five years old, and as usual I was being a nuisance to every other human being in my proximity. Usually my siblings. My sister was assisting my brother with homework in her bedroom, and for some unfathomable reason I was intent on bothering the Hades out of them. That whole "five-years-old" thing I suppose. Exhausted from repeated attempts to get rid of me, they had finally devised a devious scheme of revenge.
After I had left the room once again, my brother and sister had gathered up her dolls and lined them up facing the door. As I returned for a Scheduled Annoyance I noticed the dolls and inquired (as five-year-olds would do) what they were doing there. My sister replied, "They're tired of you coming in here, so they are going to get you."
I of course was torn between denial and terror and ran to mom in the kitchen and informed her of the nefarious doll attack. Mom was attempting to stifle laughter, though at the time I didn’t know this as my mother informed me many years later. Mom told me to go on and play.
As I was reporting the demonic dolls to my mom, my brother and sister proceeded to move the dolls from out of my sister's bedroom and out into the hallway, facing towards the way I would return (if I did).
Frustrated with mom's ennui, I trotted back towards my sister's bedroom and had gotten only about halfway down the hall when I froze in my tiny tracks. Good GOD, my brother and sister were right! The dolls were after me, and they were getting closer!
I let out a shriek of terror and went airborne to my now-perturbed mother and screamed to her that those dolls are gonna get me!
Tired of the mind game, my mother finally put a stop to the advancing dolls, telling an uproariously laughing son and daughter to "knock it off. Now."
So they acquiesced to mom’s demand and stopped scaring the hell out of me. For the time being.
Although I had the last laugh. A few years later my brother and I had a habit of interchanging the heads of my sister's dolls, which provided hours of amusement for us. We’d put Ironman’s head on Barbie and other such nonsense. Not only did my brother and I enjoy watching our sister go from serene to psychotic in a split-second, but also we unknowingly developed cross-gender toys.
We were very strange children.
My Naked Pate: the Shiny Happy Head Story
"My Naked Pate: the Shiny Happy Head Story"
Written by David M. Muench
As a teenager I was oblivious of any "follicularly-challenged" issues concerning myself. I had hair, damnit. Not only that, I was working out regularly; looking good and feeling good. It wasn't until I was about twenty-years-old when I realized that my forehead began to grow larger. In retrospect I don't recall being overtly ballistic and calling Sy Sperling every day of the week. You know, he's not only the president.
I wasn't really enjoying the scenario, but I accepted it, mainly because my father was bald.
It was a very gradual metamorphosis from having to worry about "bad hair" days to my "Look everybody! It's George Costanza!" days. Sure, I even had my "Gallagher" days when I grew my hair out longer in back as a Last Hoorah, and wondered why I never possessed a Sledge-O-Matic.
Every single man or woman has been gibed by friends with an exorbitant amount of bald jokes. I particularly enjoy when they pretend to fix their "hair" in the reflection of my expansive forehead. Gee, that never gets old. We've pretty much heard them all. Heck, we've even cut ourselves down. We have also retorted with "Yeah, it's a solar panel for a sex machine baby!" Or one of my favorites: "My hair fell off after hitting the headboard too much."
Truth be known, it can be downright painful. All of a sudden we're Lepers. Or at least we feel that we are. Such as the symbolic "Cutting of Samson's Hair" we feel our masculinity or femininity has been torn from our very souls. Yeah, I wouldn't mind having hair like Fabio; and what really irks me is when people that actually do have hair like Fabio shave their heads. It's like they're saying "Ha-ha. Now watch it grow back full and thick! Oooo, look here, chrome dome, a real hairline!"
Yeah, thanks buddy. Here's your hand basket and One Way Ticket. Now get lost.
I've considered using Rogaine or getting a hair transplant, but I didn't. What I did was venture forth to the Realm of the Extreme. No, I'm still a guy. Not that extreme. Last year after an inebriating night of clubbing (no baby seals were hurt) my buddy and I decided that I should shave my head. Naturally anything sounds reasonable to somebody that only an hour ago that night placed a beer label on his forehead saying; "It's the patch, I'm trying to quit."
Wow! After the task was completed, it was a very surreal feeling. I kept rubbing my head, and thinking to myself "Did I really do this?" That next morning I woke up and placed my hand on the top of my head and thought "Oh, man. I really did this!" It took awhile for my family to accept it with open minds, but now they know it's just who I am. My friends were very quick to accept it, telling me that I had the perfect head to be bald, and that I should have done this a long time ago. They also said it looked very sexy (my "female" friends said that thank you); even better than what my head used to look like. That is exactly what I needed. Another amazing thing happened: The bald jokes almost ceased completely. Almost.
I created the name "Shiny Happy Head" with the help of the REM song "Shiny Happy People", which I thought was very apt nom de plume for me. I also have the website "shinyhappyhead.com" The website focuses not on my shiny, happy head, but in making others smile and laugh; as I no longer dwell on being bald. I now like a clean-shaven head, and it's a plus when women at clubs walk by and rub my shiny, happy head. What can I say, apparently it's a good luck thing.
To the guys that are married and lament about losing your hair; get over it! You have somebody! Do you realize how fortunate you are to have someone to share the rest of your life with that accepts you for who you are? Stop focusing on what you don't have, and start appreciating what you do have.
Bald is Beautiful, baby!
Written by David M. Muench
As a teenager I was oblivious of any "follicularly-challenged" issues concerning myself. I had hair, damnit. Not only that, I was working out regularly; looking good and feeling good. It wasn't until I was about twenty-years-old when I realized that my forehead began to grow larger. In retrospect I don't recall being overtly ballistic and calling Sy Sperling every day of the week. You know, he's not only the president.
I wasn't really enjoying the scenario, but I accepted it, mainly because my father was bald.
It was a very gradual metamorphosis from having to worry about "bad hair" days to my "Look everybody! It's George Costanza!" days. Sure, I even had my "Gallagher" days when I grew my hair out longer in back as a Last Hoorah, and wondered why I never possessed a Sledge-O-Matic.
Every single man or woman has been gibed by friends with an exorbitant amount of bald jokes. I particularly enjoy when they pretend to fix their "hair" in the reflection of my expansive forehead. Gee, that never gets old. We've pretty much heard them all. Heck, we've even cut ourselves down. We have also retorted with "Yeah, it's a solar panel for a sex machine baby!" Or one of my favorites: "My hair fell off after hitting the headboard too much."
Truth be known, it can be downright painful. All of a sudden we're Lepers. Or at least we feel that we are. Such as the symbolic "Cutting of Samson's Hair" we feel our masculinity or femininity has been torn from our very souls. Yeah, I wouldn't mind having hair like Fabio; and what really irks me is when people that actually do have hair like Fabio shave their heads. It's like they're saying "Ha-ha. Now watch it grow back full and thick! Oooo, look here, chrome dome, a real hairline!"
Yeah, thanks buddy. Here's your hand basket and One Way Ticket. Now get lost.
I've considered using Rogaine or getting a hair transplant, but I didn't. What I did was venture forth to the Realm of the Extreme. No, I'm still a guy. Not that extreme. Last year after an inebriating night of clubbing (no baby seals were hurt) my buddy and I decided that I should shave my head. Naturally anything sounds reasonable to somebody that only an hour ago that night placed a beer label on his forehead saying; "It's the patch, I'm trying to quit."
Wow! After the task was completed, it was a very surreal feeling. I kept rubbing my head, and thinking to myself "Did I really do this?" That next morning I woke up and placed my hand on the top of my head and thought "Oh, man. I really did this!" It took awhile for my family to accept it with open minds, but now they know it's just who I am. My friends were very quick to accept it, telling me that I had the perfect head to be bald, and that I should have done this a long time ago. They also said it looked very sexy (my "female" friends said that thank you); even better than what my head used to look like. That is exactly what I needed. Another amazing thing happened: The bald jokes almost ceased completely. Almost.
I created the name "Shiny Happy Head" with the help of the REM song "Shiny Happy People", which I thought was very apt nom de plume for me. I also have the website "shinyhappyhead.com" The website focuses not on my shiny, happy head, but in making others smile and laugh; as I no longer dwell on being bald. I now like a clean-shaven head, and it's a plus when women at clubs walk by and rub my shiny, happy head. What can I say, apparently it's a good luck thing.
To the guys that are married and lament about losing your hair; get over it! You have somebody! Do you realize how fortunate you are to have someone to share the rest of your life with that accepts you for who you are? Stop focusing on what you don't have, and start appreciating what you do have.
Bald is Beautiful, baby!
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