In a male dominated society, men are under tremendous pressure. For example, they are expected to be the family breadwinner, they face the challenge of keeping it up during a sexual rendezvous, and they must do everything possible to defeat male pattern baldness. Sadly that last one is inconceivable. When the Domed Reaper finds you, there is no negotiation. Forget all the nonsense Sy Sperling tells you.
Being involved in a profession where scalp exposure is chronically rampant, I should have pondered the title of this essay for a few reasons. First of all it is quite insulting to the American Institute of Certified Public Accountants. Bean counter stereotypes tend to hold true. Accountants with full heads of hair should be registered with the National Wild Life Fund as an endangered species. Cage us up next to the giant panda, charge four dollars per visitor, and don’t cheat us out of our twenty-five percent commission or we’ll put your zoo through one heck of an audit, buddy.
But more importantly, the title of this essay is jinx worthy. Fate does not enjoy being mocked, and that’s bad news for yours truly. As a man who defies typical Accountant hair afflictions, I’ve probably doomed my luxurious mane with my cockiness. Egotism eventually comes with a price. Two years from now I’ll enter a billiards hall and experience incessant cranial jabs with errant pool sticks because patrons will be unable to differentiate the cue balls from my head. Meanwhile deep sinister belly laughs will emanate from the heavens, causing walls to vibrate as my crowded shelf of conditioners, shampoos, and styling gels crashes to the floor.
How can a grown man have faith in the childish belief of jinxing oneself? Very easily. The popularity of social internet sites has made the act of stalking simpler than ever. This month alone, a squadron of former high school classmates located me through the perusal of those sites. How could this be? I go through great lengths to avoid identification. Do you want Osama Bin Laden to be captured? Then airdrop dozens of high school reunion committees over the Middle East. They’ll drag a pouting, cursing Osama out of a dried up irrigation ditch in no time. Anyway, the reunion schedulers from hell managed to find me and send over pictures of the last gathering. All were victims of the Domed Reaper... even Julie.
One guy in particular, a hockey player, had ferocious follicles back in the day - thick strands that screamed from his scalp as if to say, "AGE WILL NOT DEFEAT US. AND NEITHER WILL A BLOW TORCH FOR THAT MATTER."
He provided stiff competition to my award winning coif, and he was never at a loss for arrogance.
"You will be bald by the start of college," he'd announce loud enough for the cheerleader’s lunch table to hear. “Your afro is an apparition.”
“HA HA HA HA HA,” said the cheerleaders. “We will never let you squeeze our voluptuous, post- pubescent fun bags as long as you look like Epstein from “Welcome Back Kotter.””
Yes, I had a white-boy fro. Everyday it was an object of ridicule. Few thought my thick curly locks would last, but they have been going strong for 34 years while my dissenters refuse to wear tuxedos for fear of resembling a Brooks Brothers mannequin without the wig. They totally jinxed themselves long ago; and as of today, so have I.
BYLINE:
Michael Angelo is a Connecticut based accountant. In his spare time he hosts a humor blog that is universally read, assuming that your definition of universal is two Canadian housewives and a schizophrenic man who claims to speak telepathically with the Sultan of Brunei. Visit Michael Angelo at www.myspace.com/humorwriter or contact him at bikemike101@hotmail.com. All income tax related questions will be answered incorrectly for personal amusement.
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