On Going Bald
REMINGTON GRAVES
It’s been a mortifying matter of a multitude of years, this falling out of love between my locks and I; I noticed the shiny, shitty spot on my scalp as I ran the comb through my hair as it collected clumps of polishing pomade. The ceiling fan caused a break in the gleam and summoned a ghastly grunt within. My Lucky filterless hung suspended by a bit of saliva on my lower lip as I squinted from the smoke and beheld the baldness in my dirty restroom mirror…I knew in my heart of hearts, that I wasn’t so lucky and that my head…it was toasted. But the days turned into months and the months to years, and out of sight, out of mind, I had heard people say, and so it went that awful way—for quite some time. Women came in and out of my life; they pulled and yanked and never said a word. Never did I consider that one day I would become part of the fucking Follicly Challenged Club.
Within the epoch of less-than-epic denial, bald men, after many an action film—after a stack or two of high-end magazine models, became sexy to me and I relished in the many voiced opinions of the mass of vixens who posited that chrome-domed polished-headed men were provocative. From vengeful hitmen, daring drivers, and yippie-ki-yayed motherfuckers, to bloated Buddhas, all had their place in the planet and some in the loins of lionesses. But no, not me…no way, no how, how could this be?
I am Forty years old now and just recently got tired of combing my hair this direction and that one, only to live daily in self-deceit. Man, I put up a fight, and can’t call it “the good fight” since, I finally admitted defeat and decided to shave it all off. Most people tried talking me out of it—bless their kind hearts, but I knew, like all men know, when it’s time to give up the jig.
‘Liberated’ was the word that came to mind when I stood up from the Salon chair under the buzzer of a bouncy, blimpy bimbo who also tried selling me the lie. So she could continue to cut my unthinkably thinning hair, no doubt. Can’t blame her, I imagine that Juicy Couture and Pink wardrobe do not come cheap for a girl in her early twenties.
When I arrived home after the drive from the Salon, flashes of the diaphanously discarded mane penetrated my mind in a hot shower as I rubbed my scalp. The water hit my skin and I dug the delightful sensation. Regret was now beginning to hold my confidence in ransom. I stepped out, dried myself, and stared in the mirror…I was a fucking god, I thought to myself, and even if my head fell off, I’d be a decapitated deity—I knew it then, for the burning black flame, which is my incendiary confidence, kicked in and commenced with a ruling roar. I had survived homeless in a Third World country at the age of eight during the eighties, there was no way this was gonna trip me up.
My apprehension almost apprehended me, but as the hours went by, my superego set its fists at its waist line while its red cape flowed…and I started to love my new look.
So, for all you men struggling with this balding battle of bruised ego, just let go, baby…just let go. Embrace the truth. Accept the older, wiser, sexier you. And carry on, my wayward, balding sons.
∞
”Engage.”
—Luc-Picard
Notable Films
GLEN LUCHFORD / ALESSANDRO MICHELE
Beautiful short film directed by Glen Luchford which follows a guest into a dance party in a villa outside Florence. The film captures the contemporary essence of Alessandro Michele’s Cruise 2016 Collection.
And a version of Joy Division’s “She Lost Control” by Greek Minimal Wave band Alive She Died.
When all else fails, dance.
∞
Ishtarmani
REMINGTON GRAVES
The matriarch was ushered in by a band of utter morons, as usual. The domicile, which she so humbly decided to speak, was a desirous locale centered amongst the beleaguered and the bourgeoisie, dull as exposed brick and banal the likes of exfoliating femmes. Disparagingly, she delved into the drivel that so often fed the daunting droves; initiating a dissonant dissent among the natives was her sole and indomitable approach—Valentino and Balenciaga—sparkling diamonds and that constant slow motion laugh, in rare form, like usual.
”Madame, madame, over here!”
”Yes, you,” she hissed slowly while adjusting her left earring, “what is it?”
”How do you feel about being with us once again here in New York?”
”The stench is pungent and the people hardly interest me enough to make me sick.”
”Countess, Countess…”
”Yes, you, the peasant with the atrociously thin eyebrows.”
”Will we say you at any of the upcoming balls this year?”
”One can hope and pray—so, you may want to get on your knees—the sooner, the better.”
”Your Majesty…”
”You, young lady with the electronic device disgustingly attached to your hand.”
”Will you ever create a social media account for all your adoring fans?”
”When pigs fly. Keep an eye on your children—they may grow wings.”
”Madame Ishtar, over here, I worship the ground you walk on!”
”Of course you do! What is your question? And don’t waste my time and squander your greatest moment with mediocrity, young man.”
”Will you ever marry?”
”Finally, a relevant question. I have found a worthy husband after so many decades. I am aware you have pleaded for such a union…well, dream no longer, I shall introduce him here today.”
The crowd approached a little closer. The smell of steaming designer wear filled the room. The sound of high heels scraped and coupled with flashing bulbs and cameras clicking and people showing and grunting and crying out the name,” Ishtar…Ishtar…Ishtar…”
The Countess caressed her clavicle with thin pale fingers as she lost her self for a short moment staring at the glorious chandelier that appeared to be slightly spinning. Her right foot almost gave out from excitement and then she cried, “Yeshua, bring out the groom-to-be, will you, darling?”
And so the bloated, bearded man disappeared to the side of the stage for a few moments while the Madame demanded silence. Gasps and small shrieks filled the room as he returned with a lion on a chain—his collar encrusted with diamonds of all sizes. The beautiful beast gently pawed his way to her and rested at her feet.
The Madame extended her long arms arrayed in long silk pearl-white gloves and said, “I present you: Togar!”
∞
And The Birds Sang Beautifully
REMINGTON GRAVES
“Look at me. Don’t look away…there…see this…in my eyes…do you recognize it?”
”I don’t—please just let me go, I don’t know you. I don’t know why you’re doing this. Will you please just let me go, please? I swear to you on everything I hold sacred, I won’t tell anyone. I promise!” She blubbered through mucus and trailing tears. Her red hair clung to her sweaty face and to the corner of her quivering soft-pink lips.
”You have seen me in the waves of a wandering Wednesday evening, in between the swaying leaves while birds sung a sullen song, as rays from the sun caressed your scarlet crown as you walked gracefully on by. The tree’s limbs bent painfully to touch you, and you unknowingly threw off the obeisance with a shrug.”
”Will you please explain to me what I did to you,” she whispered as her head hung heavy, “and I promise I can…I can…fix it.” Her arms pulled up with dirty rope, her white freckled fingers crossed each other in a thorny nest. The pastel-yellow summer dress her grandmother had given her was now torn and soiled and draped about her like a giant autumn leaf.
“I want you to do exactly what you’re doing now. It pleases me to watch you surrender as your bare, pale feet cannot sustain you any longer,” he said focusing his gaze on her slender ankles and seeing his mother’s face on a small birthmark ,he smiled warmly.
”I don’t understand why I am here. What is this place?”
”An abondoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Nobody travels out this far. Not a single person can hear you howl in that dress…no one cares about your better angles…or see your stylish eyebrows…,” he uttered in a thick, soft baritone as he slipped one hand into a latex glove and then the other, “and I can proudly tell you, this moment will not be photographed.”
A horse neighed on in the distance as its hooves delved in the dusty nightmare…and the wind whined and cut through the crops…cicadas suddenly symphonied…an owl hooted then painfully screeched…in the midst of the swelling cacophonous pandemonium, she finally constructed a world within that musical composition where a spinning sun caressed her hair…where hulking trees waved their arms and reached to cover her…where Wednesday lasted forever, and the birds sang beautifully.
She had to.
∞