I saw him again, Combover Guy. I don’t know his real name, but really, does he need one? Surely everyone refers to him by that; it’s possible his drivers license reads “Combover Guy.” I want to be clear about this, I am steadily going bald. My hair is not receding so much as retreating, having long since surrendered to my forehead. And imagine my surprise in a threeway mirror a few years ago, to discover my hair is sneaking out in the back, too. Soon, the bald spots will join hands (figuratively) across my pate. Until then, I keep my hair shorty short short just so I cannot be accused of being Combover Guy.
His ‘do is a masterpiece of artifice much like topiaries are to gardening. There is no part in it, the wisps swoop up and back and forward and side to side and every which way to finally gather at the crown in a sort of modified Gibson girl thang.
And how does he give directions to his stylist? (No mere barber could accomplish this. More of a partner in crime than anything else.) Does he plop down in the chair and announce “… and then I want this section to pivot back at 90 degrees to cover the right front quadrant?” I probably don’t want to know.
If I could ever find out his email (firstname.lastname@example.org?) I would email him “Put your hair out of its misery!!!!!! Cut it all off now!!!!!!! Maybe grow a beard!!!!” Multiple exclamation points are important, otherwise he wouldn’t know how serious the situation was, but really it would be an act of charity and love.