Bald v. comb-over: Time to decide

I got a little wistful over this column because it's from a time — May 26, 2005 — when I still had hair. Look for the sequel in a couple of days. 

Maybe it's time I cut my hair. 

My wife and I were sitting in a restaurant Friday night when a waitress came up behind me and asked, "Can I get you ladies something to drink?"

Her face turned beet red when she looked at my scruffy, unshaven face and realized her mistake. 

Her apology only dug the hole deeper. "I'm sorry, but you have such a pretty ponytail," she said, and I rolled my eyes. My wife, smirking, was mentally recording the whole exchange; she'll retell this story for years to come. 

My picture [here] is an aberration. I've spent most of my adult life with hair much longer than the male norm. On the few occasions when I've cut it short, I always go right back to work growing it out again. I'm not sure why. 

As a teenager, I thought rock guitarists were really cool, and most of them had long hair, which seemed to get them plenty of women. Of course, they had talent and money, too, but such subtleties were beyond me. 

Growing long hair seemed easier than spending hours in my room fiddling with strings and learning to play chords. I have a tin ear, anyway. 

These days, I don't troll for women much, and I no longer idolize guitarists like I did at 16. But the hair remains. 

Because I keep it in a ponytail so often, I almost never think about it, except when it gets tangled on my shirt collar or stuck in a car window. (These things happen.)

Every once in a while, though, like my waitress Friday, somebody reminds me. 

A few years back, I was standing at a urinal in a public men's room when an older gentleman shuffled in. He took one look at me, said 'Sorry, ma'am, I must have come in the wrong door," and walked right back out. I never had been able to figure it: Maybe he was from Scandinavian country where women's restrooms are equipped with urinals?

(After typing the last sentence, I did a little research. Such contraptions really do exist. Last year, the outdoor Glastonbury Festival in England offered women "a special, anatomically shaped funnel" to be used at pink-colored urinals, according to the Reuters news agency. Festival organizers called the urinals — I kid you not — She-pees.)

Then there was the incident several weeks ago. 

One of my freshman English classes was reading a novel where a red-necked hunter was described as bald on top with long hair flapping down on either side of his face and hanging on his shoulders. 

Some wiseguy in the back of the room, waking up from the self-induced coma he's been in since September, piped up, "Sounds like Schillig." Grrr. 

As my hair on top continues to thin, I will soon be faced with a choice: pull the ponytail to the top of my head and create the ultimate comb-over, or take a scissors to it and act my age. 

If I choose the latter, I'm going all the way in the opposite direction and shaving myself bald. 

That way, the next time a waitress approaches our table from behind, she can ask, "Can I get you and your father something to drink?"

That ought to turn my wife's smirk into a full-fledged grin.