Southwest Airlines Spirit Magazine / Why Shave Your Head

DURING A DEBATE TOURNAMENT back in college, my partner and I decided to have a little fun. Rather than arguing on behalf of nuclear disarmament or public transportation, we proposed that all people on planet Earth should shave their heads at least once in their lives. We combed through the Old Testament and Greek mythology for supporting evidence. We invoked the holiness of Buddhist monks and the Egyptian priest class. We mocked our opponents for their “follicular snobbery.” We lost.

The judge said our arguments lacked gravity. Perhaps he was right. Or perhaps he was simply bitter over his own male-pattern baldness . In either case, the verdict had a strange effect: I began to take this conviction seriously.

In my own moony, collegiate manner, I believed head-shaving had been given a bad rap, linked to criminal behavior, conformity, and emasculation. To me, it represented a brave rejection of our culture’s hair-obsessed narcissism . Which is why, upon arriving at grad school a few years later, I walked into a barber supply shop and bought an electric clipper.

Back at my apartment, I stood in front of the mirror in my bathroom and plugged in the device. It buzzed and trembled in my hand. I took a deep breath and watched as tufts of hair drifted to the floor. Within a few minutes my head looked like a pale, stubbled fruit.

How did I feel? I felt incredible, even better than I’d ever imagined. I felt clean and sleek and somehow…simplified. I walked outside to my porch and the wind rushed across my bare scalp and the thousands of nerves gathered there sang out in glee.

Then my neighbor Holly appeared in the driveway. “Oh God,” she said. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” I insisted. “I did this myself! Just now. With a clipper.”

Holly cocked her head. “Seriously,” she whispered, “you can tell me.”

As it turned out, walking around with a shaved head kind of freaked people out. Michael Jordan could get away with it . But he was the world’s greatest basketball player. I was merely one of the world’s most obscure and annoying short story writers . And I admit that my lockless look was extreme. My nose, never a dainty arrangement, appeared swollen to three times its normal size. The various scars and deformities of my skull—relics of a childhood spent in combat with my brothers—were suddenly on display. I looked funny, but my appearance felt like a much more honest accounting of who I was.

I spent nearly a year living this way, quite happily. I might never have grown my hair out at all, were it not for the beautiful woman I met at the end of my first year. She was not interested in dating someone whose head—to quote her—looked “like a nicked-up bullet.” Ouch.

So the clippers went into storage and my hair reemerged, in various awkward configurations. But the itch to buzz never left and a few years later, during a particularly merciless Boston summer, I dug out the clippers. It was just as pleasurable the second time—and just as distressing to my friends.

I hope this explains my personal fondness for head shaving. But the question remains: Why would I advocate it for others? I’m going to offer six reasons, which I hope you will read before nudging the person in the seat next to you, pointing to this article, and murmuring, “This guy is out of his mind.”

OK, here we go.

1) It feels really good.
Have you ever had your scalp massaged ? Or even just had someone run his or her fingers through your hair? It’s just about the best feeling in the world (among the top three, anyway).

The reason it feels so good is because the scalp is exquisitely sensitive. It has the thickest skin of any part of the body, and therefore the highest density of nerve endings, especially around the follicles. This will become clear to you the moment you kiss your curls goodbye. Simply put: It’s impossible not to caress your scalp.

I even came to love the act of shaving my head. I’d let my hair grow out a centimeter or two, buzz it back down and, if I was feeling decadent, slather my head with shaving cream and work with a razor. The result was a head so smooth it felt almost rubbery. I would then immediately go swimming. The water felt divine, as if God were kissing me on the crown of the head.

2) It strips away your vanity.
To be clear: I have nothing against beautiful hair. My wife has beautiful hair. But it’s hard to dispute that our consumer culture has gone overboard in emphasizing the importance of beautiful hair. How else might we explain the proliferation of shampoos, conditioners, thickeners, and mousses that stare out from the supermarket shelves? Take a look at your own bathroom. I’d be willing to bet you have a dozen hair-care products.

This is to say nothing of the incessant emphasis on hair restoration for men. Larry David , the grumpy hero of HBO’s comedy Curb Your Enthusiasm , has a very funny riff on the discrimination suffered by bald men in this country. The joke works because it’s rooted in truth: From the Age of Samson to the Age of Fabio , a healthy, lustrous head of hair has always represented physical prowess and sexual power. This is part of what makes the sheering of one’s locks seem like such an extreme, transgressive act.

3) It can set you free.
With some caution, let us examine the case of Britney Spears. Back in February of 2007, pictures surfaced of the pop singer shaving her head . The reaction was one of horror. How could she do something so self-destructive?

But consider what has transpired in the months since. By all accounts, Ms. Spears has straightened out her personal life, gotten back in shape, and relaunched her career . Shaving her head may have been her way of flipping out the paparazzi, but it also trimmed the narcissistic excess from her life. Intentionally or not, it turns out to have been an act of spiritual liberation.

This was part of the reason why I loved the ritual of shaving my head. It felt like a purification rite. A number of professional athletes describe having the same feeling. They make it a point to shave their heads before big games. It’s not just a ploy to intimidate your opponent or to cut down wind resistance. It’s a way of eliminating distractions.

4) It’s eco friendly.
I’m not going to overstate the case here, but it just happens to be true that when you have a shaved head you use a lot less shampoo and hot water and towels.

5) It fosters greater empathy.
Remember that old American Indian expression about how you have to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes before you can know his heart? The same rule prevails when it comes to hair.

There are, of course, many reasons why people wind up with no hair on their heads. They go bald. They get sick. They make a religious or cultural decision. They join the military. Sometimes, tragically, the decision is imposed on them.

Whatever the cause, they wind up moving through the world in a state of greater vulnerability and humility. That was certainly how I felt. Heck, my own mother gasped and said that I looked “like a refugee” the first time (since birth, at least) she saw me sans hair.

But these reactions didn’t make me angry. On the contrary, being judged makes you less apt to judge others—and more apt to sympathize with them.

6) It’s only temporary.
For the past few years, I’ve been telling my wife that I want shave my head again. “Go right ahead,” she always says. “Then hand the clippers to me.” This is her attempt at a deterrent.

The flaw in her logic is obvious: Hair grows back. To those who see my proposal as a radical one, I offer this reminder: Head shaving is, at most, a temporary measure, no more radical than a bad dye job. If you find life with a shaved head to be embarrassing or difficult, you have only to survive a few months of wearing hats. That’s what makes hair so remarkable: the miracle of regeneration.

Oddly, this argument never holds much sway with my wife.

And honestly, I don’t expect you to run out and shave your head, simply because some guy in a magazine says it’s a profound experience. But on the off chance that you do, please know that I support your decision. Oh, and also: Please don’t tell your spouse it was my idea.

Steve Almond’s latest book is the essay collection Not That You Asked . He lives with a full head of hair in Arlington, Massachusetts.

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