A surprising number of people don’t seem to realize that being bald does not necessarily mean not having hair. I’ve been bald for quite some time now, but I still use shampoo and cut my hair regularly—more regularly, I would add, than most people I know who have full and glorious heads of hair. I can let mine go for about a week before those thick and gnarly and unsightly grey hairs start to really stand out from the rest and the contrast between the top of my head, which is like a baby’s bottom, and the sides of my head, whose hair I’m pretty sure I could grow out into a long and luxurious Comic Book Guy-like ponytail, really starts to get unruly. I prefer a more streamlined look, so I cut my hair. 

My method: I use an Oster Professional Fast Feed Clipper with Adjustable Blade, no guard, to get the old haircut as high and tight as possible, standing in the shower for easy rinsing of clipped hair down the drain. I’ve been doing it this way for years, because as much as I love the beautiful hair stylist washing and massaging my head part of getting a haircut, it always seemed a little excessive to spend the kind of money it costs for a haircut from the sort of truly-uptown-level hair stylist and posh salon I enjoy once a week when I could just do the job myself. 

And so one of the few things besides clothes I packed for my tour in country was my trusty Oster Professional Fast Feed Clipper with Adjustable Blade. Of course, I could get my hair cut and head massaged here by a beautiful hair stylist in a posh-style salon, who will think I’m cute because I attempt to speak Vietnamese, for far less money than the equivalent, but, if we’re honest, way less good, service in the States. And I fully intend to do so. But I’m vain and, after a few days too many between haircuts because of the BOHICA situation that went down, the thick, gnarly, unsightly grey hair and contrast situation was pretty much out of control and I wasn’t feeling too streamlined or cute and I wanted the beautiful hair stylist who was going to laugh at my Vietnamese and shave, shampoo, and massage my head to think I was a well-put together, streamlined, and desirable American man who would make premium husband. Because I’m vain. 

I wasn’t without choices. One option would be to have my head shaved, sans shampoo or massage, by the guy on our block who cuts hair under the tree and who, no shit, uses a car battery to power his clippers. I have no doubt he’d do a fine job of it, too. I don’t imagine you’d last long in the haircut on the sidewalk with clippers hot wired to a car battery business if you weren’t a stone-cold pro. But getting a professional haircut has, for me, always been about the perks. And if the haircut-under-a-tree guy gives perks, I’m not sure I want them. 

The other option was to do it myself, old-school style. I’d stand there in the shower for ease of rinsing clippings down the drain afterwards, and cut my own hair the way I’ve done it for 20 years. I’d get myself looking nice and streamlined and cute and desirable for marriage and hit up the posh-type salon for a relatively inexpensive haircut from a beautiful and adept-at-shampooing-and-head-massaging hairstylist next week, just before the grey, gnarly, unsightly contrast started to set in. 

So there I was, standing naked in the shower with my head about two-thirds of the way shaved—which is not, I’m sure you can imagine, even close to how I’d like to have my body discovered—when a loud pop popped loudly and grey, electrical-smelling smoke streamed from my trusty Oster Professional Fast Feed Clipper with Adjustable Blade and the power went out and I stood there naked and only two-thirds streamlined, facing the quandary of how to finish the job of cutting my hair now that I pretty clearly blew up my clippers as well as the fuses in the apartment. I could, of course, abort mission, pivot and go to the posh-style salon to have the job finished. Except vanity, so that wasn’t gonna work. I could also go outside and have the job done by the haircut-under-a-tree guy who is no doubt a stone-cold professional. Except, weirdly, also vanity. 

There was only one thing to do: Go monker. Get out the old razor and shaving cream and take it down to the skin. Go really bald—like a baby’s bottom—and streamlined and cute and desirable for premium marriage, like Britney Spears or that kid in the Matrix for whom there are no spoons.