来源 :播视网 2019-11-19 19:03:05|2019黄大仙免费开奖



  Two weeks into my freshman year of college, I noticed, after showering in the communal bathroom, dozens of hairs strewn across the basin of the sink. Distantly, I had known this moment would come, that I would join the ranks of bald men, but I had not expected it would come so soon. As a boy, I eyed my tonsured uncles warily, wincing at their scalps, revolted by the way their domes gleamed wetly on torrid summer days. But deep down I knew my repulsion was self-directed — that one day I would end up like them.

  Elsewhere on campus, my fellow first-year students were experimenting with gravity bongs and casual sex, while I spent most nights hunkered in isolation, applying minoxidil to my scalp. The chemical — which is the active ingredient in many hair-growth treatments — reeks of wet pennies and leaves the skin numb and tingly, like the flush of good Champagne. But the application process itself was gruesome and complex. After an hour of squeezing an eyedropper and scrubbing off the spillage, I would finally don a protective hairnet and climb into bed, a routine I kept up until the spring of my sophomore year. By then, blotches of peach fuzz had begun sprouting along my temples, which brought to mind “Teen Wolf” and was enough to make anyone jettison the whole enterprise.

  To fully appreciate the extent of my trauma, you must understand that I had, for one fleeting season, a truly luxurious mane. Even today when I see photos of myself from high school, I can barely register the fact that I once treaded through the world so oblivious to the gift I’d been given. Autumn-colored ringlets fell past my brow like those of Botticelli’s infants. Random strangers would compliment me on the street. “Your hair!” a friend’s mother once remarked, with a twinkle in her eye. “You look just like Cat Stevens.”

  If my hair loss was particularly punishing, it was because it occurred in the midst of my 20s, when most men are entering their romantic prime. Baldness, by contrast, has long been associated with impotence, a bond that goes back to the Old Testament story of Samson, if not earlier. The Roman poets agreed. “Ugly are hornless bulls,” Ovid wrote. “So is a tree without leaves, so is a head without hair.” The only arena where bald men eke out a slight advantage is in the appearance of wisdom — cold comfort when you’ve been consigned to the phenotypical dustbin.

  Desperately I tried to summon the postwar masculinity of my Wisconsin-born relatives, who bore their hair loss stoically. These were men who shopped at Farm & Fleet, who used dish detergent as body wash, who often bathed nude in the shallows of gelid freshwater lakes. I, however, grew up during the reign of the metrosexual, when even bros of the most chest-thumping sort were experimenting with pomade. And besides, my uncles’ carefree attitude was probably a result of being bald for decades, with the indignity of corrosion long since behind them.

  Any sensible individual, at this point, would’ve taken control of fate and promptly shaved his head. Instead, I became an unfortunate disciple of illusion-styling, at times looking like the freakish love-child of Bernie Sanders and Frasier Crane. At the height of my molting, I wore an assortment of ball caps to conceal it. But hiding only led to more shame, and shame to self-abnegation.

  Perhaps it was simply a dearth of imagination. There have been attempts to recast baldness as a badge of superiority. Caesar himself, upon arriving in the city, would hear citizens chant, “Romans, guard your wives; the bald adulterer enters.” Later, during the 10th century, a Christian monk named Hucbald of St. Amand wrote “In Praise of Baldness,” in which he imagines, with sadistic glee, the gantlet of woe awaiting his hecklers: “Compress that cruel cad, captured for the crime of carping at all the bald in bootless brute behavior.” For a while, I found this rousing, until I learned that monks would tonsure themselves as a means of deliberately becoming unattractive.

  Now in my early 30s, I tend to regard my baldness as something of a joke, an unsightliness to be indulged. This is why I’ve grown my hair out long again, yielding a horseshoe of wild, mulch-colored curls. Accented by my equally unkempt beard, my visage now resembles that of an 1840s prospector or some obscure founding father, as if I had just stepped out of a daguerreotype to pontificate on matters of virtue. And why not? I went through all that hand-wringing in my early 20s. No way I’d let vanity make a claim on me now.

  One thing I’ve noticed, as my friends and I enter our 30s, is that it’s only the full-haired among us who have succumbed to the archetypal crises of early middle age. They’re the ones who moan about deepening crow’s feet. They’re the ones who take up Adult Study Abroad and think about buying sports cars. I’m inclined to think this is where bald men are truly better off. Because so many of us endured a seismic physical disruption in our youth, we now seem to rest more easily on the thought of our own mortality.

  Which, in hindsight, does make balding seem an auspicious, wisdom-giving burden. To suffer that little death teaches you that there’s no point in battling something as inexorable as time, no point in mourning something as frivolous as a hairdo. Especially when there are even greater things — your sanity, your self-respect — that you’re still at risk to lose.



  2019黄大仙免费开奖“【是】【吗】?【我】【也】【第】【一】【次】【来】,【不】【太】【清】【楚】。”【丁】【芷】【说】【道】。 【男】【子】【笑】【道】:“【你】【若】【是】【常】【来】,【我】【可】【以】【让】【这】【儿】【的】【经】【理】【带】【你】。” 【丁】【芷】【看】【着】【他】【微】【愣】。 【男】【子】【解】【释】【道】:“【我】【是】【这】【个】【商】【场】【的】【管】【理】【人】,【我】【叫】【沈】【一】【泽】。” 【丁】【芷】【微】【不】【可】【轻】【的】【点】【了】【点】【头】,【有】【听】【见】【他】【问】:“【不】【知】【道】【小】【姐】【芳】【名】【是】【什】【么】?” 【丁】【芷】【刚】【张】【着】【嘴】【巴】【开】【口】,【就】【停】【在】【上】【方】【传】


“【怎】【么】【样】?【赵】【天】【豪】【这】【个】【废】【物】【没】【碰】【过】【你】【吧】?” 【男】【子】【阴】【笑】【道】。 【王】【品】【如】【媚】【态】【表】【露】:“【哎】【呀】,【就】【赵】【天】【豪】【那】【个】【废】【物】。【说】【实】【话】【就】【只】【拉】【过】【我】【手】【罢】【了】,【其】【他】【的】【别】【说】【了】,【就】【是】【亲】【都】【没】【亲】【过】。【我】【和】【他】【约】【法】【三】【章】【了】,【结】【婚】【才】【行】。” 【男】【子】【坐】【在】【沙】【发】【上】,【冷】【笑】【连】【连】:“【这】【小】【子】【真】【把】【自】【己】【当】【纨】【绔】【大】【少】【了】,【其】【实】【本】【质】【就】【是】【一】【个】【屌】【丝】【而】【已】。【装】【什】

  【一】【个】【小】【时】【之】【后】,【在】【白】【象】【街】【后】【面】【的】【一】【处】【废】【弃】【仓】【库】【里】,【久】【保】【由】【美】【女】【扮】【男】【装】,【头】【戴】【礼】【帽】,【身】【着】【风】【衣】,【将】【自】【己】【半】【张】【脸】【藏】【在】【了】【风】【衣】【衣】【领】【下】,【站】【在】【角】【落】【里】,【注】【视】【着】【仓】【库】【大】【门】【外】【的】【动】【静】。 【过】【了】【没】【多】【久】,【孙】【建】【良】【推】【着】【一】【辆】【粪】【车】,【车】【上】【放】【着】【一】【把】【粪】【勺】,【吱】【吱】【纽】【纽】【地】【把】【粪】【车】【推】【进】【了】【这】【个】【废】【弃】【的】【仓】【库】【里】。 “【有】【人】【吗】?”【孙】【建】【良】【放】【下】【粪】【车】,2019黄大仙免费开奖【其】【实】,【我】【是】【想】【亲】【眼】【看】【到】【自】【己】【进】【入】【副】【本】【的】【过】【程】。【但】【是】【我】【失】【败】【了】,【进】【入】【副】【本】【眨】【眼】【间】【就】【完】【成】,【根】【本】【就】【来】【不】【及】【反】【应】。 【接】【下】【来】,【我】【淡】【定】【地】【收】【回】【思】【绪】,【扫】【了】【眼】【周】【围】【的】【情】【况】。【这】【个】【副】【本】【正】【值】【傍】【晚】,【而】【我】【自】【己】【则】【站】【在】【一】【个】【半】【山】【坡】【的】【平】【地】【上】。 【山】【脚】【下】【是】【一】【片】【黑】【乎】【乎】【的】【林】【子】,【里】【面】【影】【影】【绰】【绰】【的】【似】【乎】【有】【什】【么】【东】【西】【在】【晃】【动】。【黑】【夜】【耳】【目】【不】【清】,

  “【我】【记】【得】【那】【是】【在】【一】【个】【寒】【冷】【的】【冬】【日】,【大】【雪】【纷】【飞】,【把】【我】【的】【眼】【神】,【晕】【染】【的】【如】【同】【明】【镜】!” 【张】【小】【凡】【站】【起】【来】,【抬】【起】【头】,【仰】【望】【着】【天】【空】,【双】【手】【付】【于】【身】【后】,【一】【副】【世】【外】【高】【人】【的】【模】【样】。 【柳】【如】【风】【听】【到】【这】【番】【话】,【不】【禁】【为】【张】【小】【凡】【鼓】【掌】,【而】【后】,【平】【静】【的】【道】:“【你】【能】【不】【能】****?” 【张】【小】【凡】【瞪】【了】【柳】【如】【风】【一】【眼】,【不】【悦】【道】:“【耐】【心】【点】【儿】,【故】【事】【要】【慢】

  【第】【二】【日】【傍】【晚】,【她】【去】【御】【花】【园】【散】【心】,【在】【小】【林】【中】【瞧】【见】【一】【块】【大】【石】【头】,【已】【被】【晒】【得】【很】【温】【暖】,【夏】【青】【蝉】【遣】【散】【众】【人】,【在】【上】【面】【躺】【了】【下】【来】。 【小】【时】【在】【家】【中】,【她】【心】【情】【烦】【忧】【时】【也】【会】【背】【着】【下】【人】【们】【这】【样】【躺】【着】。 【六】【月】【将】【尽】,【空】【气】【很】【温】【暖】,【落】【日】【余】【晖】【照】【着】【林】【端】,【天】【尽】【头】【是】【辉】【煌】【晚】【霞】。 【夏】【青】【蝉】【觉】【得】【有】【些】【寂】【寞】,【暗】【暗】【希】【望】【有】【人】【在】【身】【边】【陪】【伴】,【正】【想】【着】,【眼】【前】


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