We humans are, at the heart of it, rather tribal, suspicious creatures, barely evolved from our tree-swinging, poop-flinging days on the African plains. We're rather cliquish and shallow, judging potential allies and mates by the most superficial of things. Hair style, for instance, is a great badge and identifier. Having too much says one thing; having too little says another. And how it's cut, or not cut, is oh-so-important. James Dean's pompadour told everyone he was cool. Richard Roundtree's 'fro told you that he was one bad mutha. Jerry Garcia's told you that he had some really good fucking weed.

The same follicle fascism applies to everyday life: It won't do to show up at the office with, say, a bright green mohawk, at least if you have to work for a living. It's bad enough there's a glass ceiling for minorities and women, but punks? Forget about it. But to try to pass for hip—or to have the pretense of running a Web 'zine called "Corporate Motherfucker"—with a middle-aged accountant's comb-over simply won't do either.

I started growing my hair long at about 14 or 15 years old, about the same time I became a vegetarian and started working out seriously. It was part of my campaign to make myself over from a fat, maladjusted, outcast, awkward kid into a fat, maladjusted, outcast, awkward, acne-ridden teenager. Before you judge me on the wisdom of questionable fashion decisions, bear in mind this was the late '80s/early '90s. Soundgarden was just beginning to sell records, but Nirvana was still just a metaphysical concept. No, all the seriously cool rebels, in my mind, listened to Metallica and Anthrax (which did come in the mail in those days, but only from Columbia House). Meanwhile, I was far too awkward and shy and to make friends with the actually cool kids like Nicky Fortunato, who might have turned me on to the Dead Kennedys, Iggy Pop, and Elvis Costello. Or, at least, given me some drugs to kill the pain. (And Nick, if you ever read this, sorry I didn't get to know you, man.)

Bear in mind, also, that I grew up in Canarsie, Brooklyn, where I had to continuously remind people that Warrant, Winger, and Poison "weren't metal" (well, maybe Poison was). Considering that the height of Canarsie culture was to wear many gold chains and drive around in your IROC-Z, blasting bad house music from the speakers that filled the back seat, my ignorance was perhaps somewhat forgivable. My hair was my symbol of my unavoidable outsider-ness, and, in my mind, made me at least better than the hoi poloi, if not actually cool—at least, of course, once my mom let me grow out the mullet. ("But, Kenny can't you just leave it long in back? It looks so much neater that way!")

Flash ahead a decade or so, past college, grad school, martial arts training, losing my virginity, and other assorted life-changing experiences. Anyone who reads this site on a regular basis can testify if I've become cooler or not; passing judgment on myself may not be the wisest thing to do. I still kept the long hair, despite the fact I work 9-to-5 in CorporateLand like everyone else. It was a part of me. It was my identity.

However, no matter what one's opinion of oneself, biological reality often intervenes. No matter how Shaft-esque I may think I am, the truth is, I'm more Shatner-esqe. In other words:

I am going fucking bald.

As you can see from the photo of me and my father circa 1983, baldness runs in my family. According to family history, when they were going around giving proper surnames to all the Jews, we got shafted with "Mondschein" when someone forgot to bribe Frederick the Great's officials enough to get a decent last name. Literally, "Mondschein" means "moonshine," but in 18th-century Germany, "moon" was a colloquialism for "bald spot." The light has been reflecting off our scalps ever since: All the men on my Dad's side of the family all either have plugs, or else built-in reflectors for bicycling at night.

When you start losing your hair, despite medical science's (i.e. pharmaceutical companies') opinion on the matter, there's not much that can be done. To keep my long hair was getting more and more ridiculous. Besides the fact that even the guys in Metallica had sold out, made a video, cut their hair, and sued Napster (in that exact order), my lovely locks were annoying when I was working out, clogged the drain when I showered, and marked me as a permanent fashion victim. The thinning hair didn't help: I, at 26 years of age, looked like a high school science teacher going through a midlife crisis. There was only one thing to be done:

I needed a haircut.

Next: A Clean Shave