The same follicle fascism applies to everyday life: It won't do to show up at the office with, say, a bright green mohawk, at least if you have to work for a living. It's bad enough there's a glass ceiling for minorities and women, but punks? Forget about it. But to try to pass for hip—or to have the pretense of running a Web 'zine called "Corporate Motherfucker"—with a middle-aged accountant's comb-over simply won't do either.

I started growing my hair long at about 14 or 15 years old, about the same time I became a vegetarian and started working out seriously. It was part of my campaign to make myself over from a fat, maladjusted, outcast, awkward kid into a fat, maladjusted, outcast, awkward, acne-ridden teenager. Before you judge me on the wisdom of questionable fashion decisions, bear in mind this was the late '80s/early '90s. Soundgarden was just beginning to sell records, but Nirvana was still just a metaphysical concept. No, all the seriously cool rebels, in my mind, listened to Metallica and Anthrax (which did come in the mail in those days, but only from Columbia House). Meanwhile, I was far too awkward and shy and to make friends with the actually cool kids like Nicky Fortunato, who might have turned me on to the Dead Kennedys, Iggy Pop, and Elvis Costello. Or, at least, given me some drugs to kill the pain. (And Nick, if you ever read this, sorry I didn't get to know you, man.)

Bear in mind, also, that I grew up in Canarsie, Brooklyn, where I had to continuously remind people that Warrant, Winger, and Poison "weren't metal" (well, maybe Poison was). Considering that the height of Canarsie culture was to wear many gold chains and drive around in your IROC-Z, blasting bad house music from the speakers that filled the back seat, my ignorance was perhaps somewhat forgivable. My hair was my symbol of my unavoidable outsider-ness, and, in my mind, made me at least better than the hoi poloi, if not actually cool—at least, of course, once my mom let me grow out the mullet. ("But, Kenny can't you just leave it long in back? It looks so much neater that way!")

Flash ahead a decade or so, past college, grad school, martial arts training, losing my virginity, and other assorted life-changing experiences. Anyone who reads this site on a regular basis can testify if I've become cooler or not; passing judgment on myself may not be the wisest thing to do. I still kept the long hair, despite the fact I work 9-to-5 in CorporateLand like everyone else. It was a part of me. It was my identity.

However, no matter what one's opinion of oneself, biological reality often intervenes. No matter how Shaft-esque I may think I am, the truth is, I'm more Shatner-esqe. In other words:

I am going fucking bald.

As you can see from the photo of me and my father circa 1983, baldness runs in my family. According to family history, when they were going around giving proper surnames to all the Jews, we got shafted with "Mondschein" when someone forgot to bribe Frederick the Great's officials enough to get a decent last name. Literally, "Mondschein" means "moonshine," but in 18th-century Germany, "moon" was a colloquialism for "bald spot." The light has been reflecting off our scalps ever since: All the men on my Dad's side of the family all either have plugs, or else built-in reflectors for bicycling at night.

When you start losing your hair, despite medical science's (i.e. pharmaceutical companies') opinion on the matter, there's not much that can be done. To keep my long hair was getting more and more ridiculous. Besides the fact that even the guys in Metallica had sold out, made a video, cut their hair, and sued Napster (in that exact order), my lovely locks were annoying when I was working out, clogged the drain when I showered, and marked me as a permanent fashion victim. The thinning hair didn't help: I, at 26 years of age, looked like a high school science teacher going through a midlife crisis. There was only one thing to be done:

I needed a haircut.

I may be a fashion victim, but I'm not stupid. Before doing anything radical, I consulted with my friend Beatrice, who has more fashion sense in her pinky finger than exists in several generations of my family. (That's her on the right.) Besides being beautiful and and having terrific taste in tattoos and piercings, she's from Germany and works in the fashion industry. (Note to readers: In my mind, Europe + fashion industry = instant credibility.) Beatrice, being a humanitarian as well as a good friend, made an emergency appointment with a reputable hairstylist. And, so, last Thursday, I went in search of something that would have dumbfounded even Leonard Nimoy: A hairstyle for a balding guy that is somehow "hip" and "with it," as you kids say these days—yet is safe enough for the office. It's regrettable, I know, but I've had to work for a living ever since that darn Tsar lost power. . .

Here we are at the offices of Gina Thomas, haircutter to the stars, on 14th Street in Manhattan. Naturally, I brought a disposable camera with me so as to share the results of my research with my dear readers, who may be going bald themselves. (Not being independently wealthy, nor sexy enough for an Amazon.com wish list, I don't have a digital.) I also brought my friend Stephanie for moral support and to take the pictures.

They were very, very nice to me at the salon, and very forgiving of my every little faux pas. It was a good thing, too, since I have no idea of proper hair salon etiquette. I haven't had a haircut since the early '90s, remember.

This is me, pre-haircut. Notice the receding hairline. It was at about this time that I began imbibing heavily of the free wine. This was necessary in order to work up my courage for What Had to Be Done.

In short order, I explained the situation to Gina.

Me: "Gina, I've had long hair since I was a teenager. I want to be a rebel so very badly—some sort of misguided apprehension that it's kind of related to hipness, which in turn might get me laid, I suppose. However, you see, I'm also going bald. Also, the long hair thing died with Joey Ramone. I look like an idiot. Please help me!"

Gina: "Shave it."

Me: "Uh. . ."

Gina: "Have some more wine."

[Gulps wine]

Me: "O.K."

Believe it it not, this was less painless than it looks. Gina is VERY good.

Have I mentioned that a lack of a neck also runs in my family? Between fencing and karate, I work out five or six days a week, and I'm in great shape. Still, no neck appears. On the other hand, it's a great asset if I ever want to be the Investigator in Rocky Horror. . .

This is definitely my good side.

In my opinion, an improvement. I look almost human. Hell, after swapping my glasses for contacts, I look fucking sexy. (Notice the slightly unfocused eyes from all the wine.)

Gina is damn good at what she does. I'd recommend her for all your makeover needs.

In conclusion, there's not much you can do about your genetics. However, by consulting with the cognoscenti, and with the proper application of equal parts attitude, expertise, and merlot, there's no reason to spend your entire life looking like a geek. For my particular problem short, buzz-cut hair was the way to go: It's got street cred; it's got style; it's equal parts yes, let's have lunch at the club, shall we? and fuck with me, I'll rip out your larynx and use it for a hackey sack. I'm really, really glad I did this.

Of course, now it's going to grow out again, and I'm going to need another haircut. . .