Hoarders: The Shampoo Edition

As you may recall, a few days ago I wrote about the oppression and disrespect that bald men (or, as we prefer to be called, "Shiny-Americans") have been putting up with for years.  We hear it from our friends and co-workers, we get ridiculed out in public, and even the mainstream media has gotten into the act with hairist caricatures like Mr. Clean.  I thought I'd gotten all that "anti-bald" frustration out of my system, but apparently not, because this morning I was the target of prejudice right in my own home.

I was getting dressed when Theresa called to me from the shower.  "Chris, can you go out to the hall cabinet and get me a new bottle of hair conditioner?"

First of all, what the hell is "hair conditioner"?  I vaguely remember shampoo, as I used it regularly until it became unnecessary in the mid-90's.  But more importantly here, what about my goddamn feelings?  Would you send a legless man down to Footlocker to pick you out a nice new pair of Air Jordans?  I doubt it.  When I opened the cabinet, though, I forgot all about Theresa's insensitivity because this is what I saw:

I mean, holy freaking crap, what is all that stuff?  Shampoo, hand soap, body gel, body wash (which is apparently not the same thing as body gel), air fresheners, hand lotion, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.  My God, she's a hoarder!  There's so much junk in there that if disaster were to strike leaving us trapped in our home, and assuming that we still had running water, Theresa's hair would be able to maintain its luster and bounce until approximately the year 2028.

Even so, I couldn't find the friggin' hair conditioner anywhere.  Oh, and please be advised that the large bottle of white stuff in the very front of the picture is NOT conditioner, it's shampoo.  That's important later on in the story.

"What's taking you so long out there?" hollered Theresa from the shower.

"I'm navigating my way through the Valley of the Lotions, give me a second!"

After knocking over a half-dozen squirters of hand soap and a couple hair sprays, I was able to locate a bottle of Alberto VO5 grapefruit mandarin splash Vitaburst volumizing conditioner which, according to the bottle, is bursting with vitamins B, C, and E.  I'm not making that up, it actually says, "bursting with vitamins B, C, and E."  The bottle also says "new", but given the ridiculous amount of shit Theresa has in the cabinet, this bottle may very well have been purchased in 1993.

I took the bottle to Theresa.  "You find it?"

"Yeah, all the way in the friggin' back."  We then engaged in the conversation that inspired this rant.

She then went to the cabinet and said, "Look, there's a bottle of conditioner right here in the front, I don't know how you missed it."  This was an attempt to either make me feel stupid or make herself feel better about the fact that she basically runs a shampoo museum.

"Let me see that," I said.

She handed me the bottle, a smug look upon her face.

I read the label.  Suave coconut shampoo.

"Look here," I said triumphantly.  "SHAMPOO!"

"Oh," she said.

Damn right, "oh".  Somebody got sham-punked.


d

Say it Loud, I'm Bald and I'm Proud!

I quote from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.:

" . . . when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

One can hardly argue the point Dr. King was making here, specifically, humans have been granted certain basic rights and those rights should apply to everyone regardless of race, creed, color, or religion.  In fact, King went so far as to list specific groups of people -- blacks, whites, Jews, etc. -- to leave no doubt that he meant everyone, EVERYONE, should be "free at last."  But despite his efforts to the contrary, he did in fact overlook one group of Americans, the group that has undoubtedly suffered through generations of oppression, strife, prejudice, and ridicule.

I'm speaking of course about bald people, or as we prefer to be called, Shiny-Americans.

Baldy-hating is everywhere.  A couple weeks ago, I noticed that my secretary was having a particularly rough morning, the paperwork was piling up, the general public was being a general public nuisance.  To be nice, I got her a cup of coffee and said, "How's things going there, Annette?  Everything okay?"  Just being supportive, really, like a good boss should.  But instead of appreciating my kindness, she fired an offensive slur my way.

"Yeah, it's just been a little hectic.  I've been pulling my hair out trying to get this paperwork finished."

Pulling her hair out?  Oh, that's real nice, just throw it in my face, why don't you?  Yeah, I get it, ha, ha, Chris, you don't HAVE any hair to pull out.  Well, I'm going to remember this when it comes time to write her job evaluation, that's for sure.

And that sort of thing happens all the time.  Someone will come into my office and say, "I'm just going to drop this on your desk and then I'll be out of your hair."

You insensitive asshole!  Would you walk up to a quadriplegic and extend your hand for him to shake?  Wave to Stevie Wonder across a crowded room?  Have a deaf guy paged over the Dodger Stadium public address system?  Of course not.  But you'll have no problem telling a Shiny-American that you'll "be out of his hair in just a minute."

Nice.

Here's another thing.  When you hairy-headed freaks start whining about your "bad hair day," it makes me want to whack you across the forehead with a Louisville Slugger.  Complaining to a Shiny-American about a "bad hair day" is like telling a starving Ethiopian kid that the porterhouse steak you had last night was a bit undercooked.  At best, it's thoughtless.  If you ask me, though, it's downright cruel.  I'm going to say this one time, and I expect all of you to make a note of it:  No day with hair is a "bad hair day."  Appreciate what you have, for someday it may be gone.

Hairism has also found its way into the mainstream media.  While civil rights activists have lobbied against racist caricatures like Aunt Jemima, the "Yo quiero Taco Bell" dog, and the Asian guy who did the Six Flags commercials, apparently no one has a problem with the most offensive stereotyping of Shiny-Americans ever perpetuated.

This guy.

What, my head is shiny so that means I'm supposed to scrub your bathroom?  My impeccable cranial hygiene makes me the perfect candidate to polish your kitchen counters?  It's time to stop labeling people simply because of their hair (or lack thereof).

I am proud to be a Shiny-American, and refuse to conform to the expectations of the majority.  I look with disdain upon products such as Rogaine, intended to make us feel like we must have hair if we are to be considered "whole."  I will not wear a toupee, nor will I subject myself to mutilating surgery such as plugs or implants.  I am a proud, strong, bald man and I will not be shamed into defacing my dignified dome.

It's time to to take a stand and fight for the rights of follically-impaired individuals everywhere.  That's why I am declaring July to be National Bald History Month, so we can take time to appreciate the contributions that Shiny-Americans have made to our country.  Great men like Dwight Eisenhower and James Garfield proved that you don't need gorgeous flowing locks to be elected President of the United States.  The Blue Man Group showed how joining together with other bald people can lead to great success and acceptance.  Michael Jordan became a successful athlete while overcoming two social obstacles, being a Shiny-American and also being very, very tall.

Bald History Month can be celebrated in a number of ways starting, of course, with a national holiday on July 11 in honor of Yul Brynner's birthday.  In the Broadway musical The King and I, Mr. Brynner was one of the first stage performers to use his baldness as a trademark, paving the way for future Shiny-American actors like Telly Savalas, Patrick Stewart, Bruce Willis, and Elmer Fudd.

For those of you who have been blessed with a full head of hair, take a moment this month to connect with your Shiny-American friends.  Tell them that you understand their plight, and maybe offer to help apply the sunscreen to the hard-to-reach spots on their noggins.  Get to know the person underneath that gleaming melon, see him for who he is rather than as a target for tired old jokes.

 And to my reflective-skulled brethren, I say this:

Let us not wallow in the valley of hair despair, I say to you today, my friends.

Even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow and tolerate insulting names like "chrome-dome" and "cue ball", I still have a dream.  It is a dream deeply rooted in the American Dream.

I have a dream that one day this hair-obsessed nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day in the hair salons of West Hollywood, the sons of Shiny-Americans and the sons of hair stylists will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that my two children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the the lustrous hair which adorns their heads, but by the content of their character.

I have a dream.

d