This week, Prince William did the deed and unveiled to the world his new buzz cut. As a Royal, the only crown anyone had talked about was his thinning one. So, in a singular act of self-acceptance, he sheared away years of smoke and mirrors hairstyling.
Some people, invariably the ones with a full head of hair, always claim to be baffled as to why those with thinning pates don’t join the buzz cut club earlier than they end up doing. I think the reason is that male pattern baldness is not a case of “hair today, gone tomorrow”; it’s a slow theft (yes, it’s a crime), taking years, creeping imperceptibly, insidiously, and the owner’s state of realization is always a few steps behind the actuality of events atop his bonce.
I speak from experience of course. The hair trimmer setting when visiting the barber started at a No.4 years ago and over time has decreased like a very slow countdown to my own buzz cut. I am now hovering at the No.2 mark as if I can’t let the countdown proceed any further lest my head explodes like the launch platform at Cape Canaveral.
Not all that long ago, I apologetically enquired of the barber whether he could give me a “one and a half”. (Yes, it sounded as pathetic then as it does written down). I half-expected him to quietly put down the trimmer he was brandishing and just hug me for a few minutes, whispering: “it’s okay, you can let go, just let go….”.
My tipping point of realization came recently when sat all day on the open top deck of a tour bus in Cape Town. Having congratulated myself on conscientiously painting my face with SPF 30, I had completely failed to recognise the UV rays that were about to purchase a full-day ticket for the open top deck on my head.
Fortunately my towering 5’ 10” frame and my tendency to look down my nose at other people (I knew that trait would come in handy one day) meant that it was not obvious to all that I was nicely browned on top like a lasagne finished under a grill. (When my son read this paragraph, he told me that I’m just “roasting” myself. I said, “I know, that’s my point…”).
Although, in other ways, I have shown self-awareness: the natty facial hair I decided to cultivate a few years ago must have been at least subconsciously influenced by the desire to compensate.
The HR grooming policy at work states that facial hair is only permitted if it’s neat and tidy and, critically, if it reflects “cultural and religious norms”. I believe I can argue I haven’t violated any workplace policy. After all, isn’t the commonality of the follicle-driven travails of balding men and the compensatory stratagems they collectively adopt in effect a male “sub-culture”? Or alternatively couldn’t the compensatory beard be treated as a religious symbol of the adherents of the Church of Statham?
You know, Statham? Jason Statham: actor, former Olympic diver, fisticuffs connoisseur, and, above all else for men like me, High Priest of Balding Buzz Cuts.
A few times I have leapt up from the sofa in a moment of inspiration and announced that not only am I going to the barber, but that today is the day that I am “going Full Statham” which I confess is not an objectively verified international haircut standard but for me means an aggressive No.1 all over or less. What has been objectively verified however is that, every time, I have instead returned with a not-quite-there excuse for the Full Statham; the Pseudo-Statham, if you will.
But recently I came to justify this to myself as insight rather than the weakness I first assumed it was. This is because, as with most truth seekers investigating a new belief system, I had not properly grasped the ethos of the Church of Statham. When it comes to the High Priest himself, he rocks the buzz cut because he is the whole package, top to bottom. I realized that Stathamism (to give the belief system its proper name) requires adherence to broader principles of physical and attitudinal bad-assery. Simply put, a Dad-bod ain’t gonna cut it with the Statham B&B (Buzz & Beard). Stathamism would disdainfully regard that folly as akin to a baker thinking he could save a cake that has collapsed in the middle by decorating it with intricate icing on top.
I declared to myself that my pseudo-Stathaming was therefore quite understandable and must continue whilst I plan an exercise regime that would make Jason proud.
That means gym time. For which I need inspiration from the man himself. Now where’s that Blu-Ray of Fast and Furious 7? And that bag of Doritos? (I need to carb-load for the free weights).