Shaved, Not Shaken: Pointing Out Flaws in Others and Forgetting Monk-Magic

“How do you do that?” Brian gestured toward my shaved head.
“I’m decrypting this with the public key the vendors sent us.”
“No, I mean, how do you shave your head?”
Brian was losing hair at an exponential rate.
The young, arrogant dude I met ten years ago, sporting a luxurious mane, had transformed into an older, arrogant dude with rapidly thinning hair.
“I just shave it. Blade and shaving cream.”
Brian was concerned he would cut himself.
“No, it’s fine, dude. I shave only on Fridays.”
“That gives me time to heal from the bigger wounds I inflict on myself, and by Wednesday I can safely venture out into public spaces again.”
I couldn’t quite read Brian’s reaction. But he knew I was sprouting nonsense.
“No, remember, just like you don’t always nick your chin, the scalp becomes more tolerant to shaving.
Forget about barbers. Save money.”

At times I told people, who never realized they were regurgitating the same question, that I used a customized flamethrower.
It burns off the hair, and I wipe away the ashes with a damp cloth.
Or I’d claim I had learned an ancient art from monks in Tibet: the power of the mind to retract the follicles into the scalp.

I was still a teacher when a student pointed to my thinning crown.
People are amazing that way, slipping into the role of Captain Obvious so easily, unpacking flaws you’re already painfully aware of. “You gained ten pounds since I last saw you.”
What do they expect? For the accused to reply, “No, it’s only nine.
I thought you could tell the difference between nine and ten.”
When you encounter someone in a wheelchair, do you alert them to the fact that they are indeed seated while navigating life’s obstacles?
What else do you casually toss out there as a useless observation?

At times I succumbed to reacting to banal comments with comebacks.
“Those thick reading glasses you received yesterday have a built-in special effect.”
“They make me look bald. Take them off, and you’ll see I have thick, wavy hair.” Or: “Okay, guys, baldness jokes on Tuesdays, height on Wednesdays, other defects Thursdays. Let’s keep a schedule.”

A morbidly obese manager I once slaved under sweated so profusely when he took control of my keyboard and mouse that I had to wipe down my desk afterward.
That was fine, for him, as long as he could still jab at my shiny cranium.
Over time, I relaxed. I’d slowly rub my head and say, “Freedom from hair, not baldness.” And then I would wipe my desk.
Nowadays, I mostly nod, pour myself a coffee, notice the incongruities in those who spew personal comments, turn around slowly, and ask, “How are you? How was the weekend?”
Here’s trite advice, that still holds true: We can’t stop banal comments from floating our way. But we can finetune our reactions.
On top of that… A long line of celebrities has paved the way for us mere mortals to own the bare mark of confidence, and yeah, it works for thousands of monks.
So bring it on. For those who comment, will they ever realize it’s never about my shaved head.
Nope. It’s about their insecurities. That took me some time to understand.