The buzzer slid across my head with sickening efficiency. Row after row, the hair separated from my scalp, effortlessly floating down to the floor. The bathroom was small and contained: a shower to the left, a mirror straight ahead. The image reflected was of a “streamlined” me and my good friend Mike, standing there with the buzzer in hand.

Mike was grinning. He loves this stuff. Buzzing heads is his thing. I’m the latest victim. My brother is next and on the way. He’s got an afro. I’m afraid that when he sees me, he’ll have second thoughts. But that’s the least of my worries right now.

The rest of the hair comes off. We decided on the shortest cut: a number one. The length is so short, it’s shocking.

Contrary to what I’ll say afterward, this wasn’t an impulse thing. No, it was well planned and well thought out. It was the culmination of two months of agony and worry. It’s weird, I must say, but it’s nice to have it done. The haircut finishes and I look into the mirror. “Wow,” I think, “the day has come.”

I’m losing my hair, you see. It’s been going at a rapid pace and it’s scary. I saw the traces of it a long time ago. For two years now my hairline has gone farther and farther back. Never was it too pronounced, but it was always there. Now though, there’s no denying reality.

I’ve always been a prime candidate for balding. If it’s true what they say, that it goes by your mother’s side, then I never stood a chance. The men fitting that description, my two uncles and grandfather, all sport finely combed tufts on the side and shiny reflective scalp on the top. If genes determine this situation then it’s no wonder that it was coming for me. But so fast?

Yes, it’s been fast. It happened as I was leaving Turkey two months ago and then sped up upon my return to the States. My last few weeks in Istanbul saw the texture of my hair take a turn for the worse. It was weird, it was different, still, I thought little of it. When I got back to Cornell however, things accelerated and I quickly understood. The hair was dry and weak; strands would snap off like dead branches, a follicle recession was taking place.

They say that you never realize the value of something until it’s gone. I think they’re right. When the hair started to go I really understood. Hair is a definer. It makes up a significant part of the identity we take on. Bald is an identity too. Not a good one. Says one balder I found in my Google search, “I feel uglier than I ever have and I feel hopeless about the future.” A doomed feeling set in; I didn’t know what I was going to do.

Many thoughts set into my head. Should I look for marriage immediately? How about that Rogaine stuff? Maybe Propecia? Should I grow it long and cover up? Should I buzz it short and play it cool? Should I wear a toup? OK, the last option was never a serious consideration but you catch my drift.

I thought about life as a bald man and concluded it wouldn’t be easy, especially at my height of five foot six. “This isn’t going to be fun,” I thought with a building sense of dread. Yet, today, I think I’ve accepted it. It’s a new challenge, no doubt, but there’s no use going into a hair depression over a little bit of a hair recession. And so, I was left again with my options. I decided to play it cool — buzz cut it was.

As the last few strands of my hair left my head, I took a look back into the mirror and did a damage assessment. Besides for what I’d call a small divot in the front, my hairline was actually looking a lot better than I anticipated. The sides were clearly receding back, but heck, I was OK with it. A quick check of the back of my head also revealed some healthy growth there too. Perhaps another few years are in store?

The answer will come when the hair grows back in again. I’ve got a feeling that it’ll never return to the way it once was, but am hopeful that it won’t get too much worse too quickly. I could be wrong, but like I said, I’m ready for it.

I will end with the words of our great former president George W. Bush, “Bring it on.”