One day I was at my gym. It’s one of those local gyms where you know most of the members, if only by sight, and small talk with a handful whenever you happen to be in the gym at the same time.
One day, there was a dude who was a new member. I, at least, had never seen him thre before. He was a black dude, so I gave him ‘the nod’ when we passed each other between workout stations and kept it moving.
I was packing my gym bag 45 minutes later and toweling the profuse sweat from my dome. I could actually feel him staring at me. Every time I looked up though, he swiftly avoided my gaze. By this point in my life, this was not uncommon. Besides being completely bald, I’ve always been a very large human, so looks of surprise or curiosity were commonplace.
As I was about to leave, he finally built up the courage to say something to me.
“Yo son. How do you get your head shave so smooth? That shit is tighter than a mutha f**ka.”
The funny thing about his reaction after I told him my perfectly shaved head was the result not of some well kept secret or new revolutionary product, but of a disease I had recently gotten, was his sense of acceptance. I could tell as far as he was concerned, he would be absolutely fine with contracting this condition if it meant he could get as smooth a shave as I had clearly gotten.
And when I told him I don’t have to shave. Ever. Well, this is the look I’ve come to recognize as “I’d give anything to have your problems!” I’ve come to know this look well.