How the Fight Really Started

I shaved my head for the first time on December 23, 2002 when I realized, (and admitted), that my friends at work were not exaggerating about the saucer sized bald spot in the back of my head. I was twenty-eight years old at the time and I was sick of living in the denial stages of hereditary baldness. My wife came home from the grocery store to find my new, hairless scalp shining under the kitchen lights with surprise and a bit of disgust.

It did not take either one of us very long to realize that the "new me" looked younger. The "new me" appeared thinner. The "new me" walked with more confidence, somehow. My hairless head soon won over my wife and, to tell the truth, made me look, somehow, "not so bald".

The "new me" also learned that this age defying technique of self grooming was something that became a chore. Three times a week, I could be found standing above the bathroom sink with shaving cream on top of my head and millions of tiny little hairs floating atop the semi-sudsy water in the sink basin. I used, dulled and threw away Gillette Mach 3 razor blades by the handful, making the "new me" a more expensive, high maintenance fellow.

The boredom with shaving went away by a stroke of accidental genius one August day. My friend was on his way over to take me to The Dayton Mall so that I could buy something for my wife's birthday. As usual, I was running behind. Before I jumped into the shower, I left a note taped to the side door of the house. The note said: "Come on in. I'm cleaning up and will be ready in just a bit."

Well, my friend was running behind, too. I ran a hand across the top of my head and felt the many, prickly hairs that had poked through my scalp since the day before. I, then, wrapped a towel around my neck and, quickly, started shaving my head. This time, I used very little shaving cream and chose not to replace the blade that should have been changed two shavings ago.

Carelessness, a big damn hurry and a dull razor blade. Those three elements resulted in the removal of a dime-sized chunk of flesh on the left high side of my head. Before I was finished shaving, blood had flowed from that spot on my head, down my neck and had forked at my shoulder peak, making a stream down my chest and back. The amount of blood pouring out of my head was almost scary but I finished shaving and was just about to wipe myself clean when my buddy called. He was about fifteen minutes away.

The wheels in my brain started rolling.

I was alone in the house. My wife was at work and the kids were both away. My buddy is known for being a tad bit paranoid and I am known for pulling a good prank on every available opportunity - while keeping a stone-cold face.

I kept aggravating my shaving wound so that the bleeding would continue. I watched out the alley-side kitchen window until I saw my friend's car drive by, toward the driveway. I opened the side door, leaving it about six inches ajar, then layed down, barechested, on the cool kitchen floor and kept my eyes open in what I now refer to as my "Deadman's Stare".

I heard my friend wipe his feet at the welcome mat.

I heard him audibly read the note that I had left for him on the opened door.

I watched out of the corner of my left eye as he stepped inside...

The neighborhood heard him as he fled the scene, running through my yard and screaming. I was lucky to have caught up to him before he could get back into his car. My friend was nearly in tears as he stood there, looking at me with moon-sized eyes.

After the first swear word emerged from his mouth, I laughed and did not stop even after the solid right hook knocked me onto the ground.

We are still good friends. He comes over to the house every now and then but refuses to enter unless someone is there to answer his knock, no matter what the note on the door says.