The cure for baldness is certain death.
Yeah, I said it...DEATH...and the certain kind.,,,not the 'check his pulse, I think he's still breathing' variety of uncertain
At 30, my impassable rainforest of glorious follicles began to thin away like an Amazonian road project. As the months passed into years, the number
of hairstyles I could choose from dwindled down into a choice of three; numbers 1, 2 or 3 with the shaver. For shame I was called 'kiwi-head.'
I turned to the bottle and started drinking. Under cover of darkness, I'd slip through the quiet night streets and gaze longingly at the black and
white hair-style posters in the windows of barber shops.
As the hair rapidly thinned out and retreated from my face, I realised that only time-travel could solve the problem and return me to my rightful
place in the queue at the local barber-shop. Sure, I saved money on shampoo, wax and putty, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough...
I haunted the university libraries and stalked the aisles after they'd closed to search through the research.
didn't work. Oceans and oceans of lotions and potions left me with huge
bills and the hairs kept falling and failing like the dreams of wise-guys trying to make a buck on the tough streets. And like a wise-guy, it became
necessary to kill to succeed in the dream...
My maternal grandfather
die. He had to be stopped from passing on his faulty gene to me and my hairline. That SoB had to be stopped!
So I waited...and watched. Hour after hour clicking the refresh button on science websites waiting for the invention of a time-machine. Waiting for my
time to come....the embers of my shame and fury keeping me warmer in the cold wind than the isolated hairs on my head. Tough times.
Then Stephen Hawkins spoiled it all with his 'Grandfather Paradox
SoB, with his full head of hair, warned that if we kill our grandparents...we would never live. Dammit and damn his brown locks....my dream of hair