I am Kyle's self-indulgence

In high school I had a very prominent widow's peak, and my friends would tease me about my receding hairline. I used to get defensive and say, "It's not receding--it hasn't moved in years." Recently, this retort has become more of a personal joke, because anyone who's been paying any attention can see that my hair is receding faster than a Himalayan glacier (sorry, that's the best analogy I could come up with).

I'm actually a little bit surprised at how much this bothers me. I've known since I was a child that male pattern baldness is in my genes and that my fate was pretty much inevitable. But faced with the immediate reality of it, I find myself becoming very self-conscious. I think what it comes down to is that this is a clear sign that I am getting Old. There have been plenty of signs before this: my ever-enlarging gut, an increase in back pains, and the fact that I can't run more than a mile without stopping to catch my breath. But I've been able to tell myself that if I wanted, I could get back in shape, lose my belly fat, and (maybe) have fewer back problems due to my increased core strength. But hair loss I can do nothing about (at least, not without enduring some embarrassing treatments).

No, I've decided that if I'm going to go bald, I'm going to do it naturally and with dignity, and to that end I'm just going to keep my remaining hair cropped short. I was doing this last night, and after I was done I was (again) examining that hair line and lamenting the extent of its retreat.

Erika, wonderful wife that she is, has been very supportive of me throughout this time, reassuring me that my hair loss in no way detracts from my otherwise handsome features. Last night she said to me, "I know you think it makes you look older, but I don't. To me you look like Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction." That, it turns out, is the most awesome thing a woman can say to her balding husband.