The realisation that the end was nigh came at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, aged 20. After a night dancing to the sweet funk of High Fade in Whistle Binkies, some friends and I hiked up to Arthur's Seat to see the sunrise. A long trek but worth it: the sun creeping over the horizon, basking us in this glorious orange.
But when videos were shared of our 4am descent from the hilltop, a camera caught a top-view of my scalp. It was an unfamiliar angle and I was shocked. I couldn't argue with the morning rays. My hair was thinning. A lot.
And so began my depressing obsession. This endless flood of mini heart-sink moments. Frantic research into treatments. Avoidance to evade acceptance. Occasional jokes, laughed off. I became terrified of haircuts, growing my hair longer to boost my defensive armoury which the wind could cut through in a second. A joke hairline competition at a party, landing second-worst.
Time progressed. I moved into bleak post-uni life — a new lifeless town, a new temp job, a brutal hunt for a permanent position in the evenings, no friends around, fresh out of a breakup. All whilst watching these little fragments of my identity tumble from my scalp onto the shower-tray, day-after-day.
I'd be scared to swim, emerging from the water and rushing for my towel to hide the horror. The bright office lights exposing the scalp beneath my thinning curls. Nervous admissions, self-depreciating humour and over-sharing to pre-diffuse my paranoia. Endless photos documenting the decline.
I read The Descent of Man by Grayson Perry. He says men are status-driven brutes, trained to hunt on the savanna, but now displaced in a coffee shop. So while we can't compete with each other physically, we find a myriad of proxies to continue the battle.
My pathetic fretting had reached a frenetic fever pitch.
So I dug myself into the nib of the question: why do I care so much? Why am I so obsessed and upset? It's just some hair mate, calm down!
A while ago, I read The Descent of Man by the inimitable Grayson Perry. He peered into the messy cloud of modern masculinity. Perry says men are these status-driven brutes, trained to hunt on the savanna, but now displaced in a coffee shop. So while we can't compete with each other physically, we find a myriad of proxies to continue the battle. It's not hunting, it's the specificity of your metrosexual coffee addiction, it's your niche music taste, how much you can bench, how many women you've slept with, how many drugs you've done, your test scores, your job; your hairline.
Men shouldn't suffer this strangulation, but we do. We trample over each other in this rat-race for status.
So, if the pillars of your identity — your degree, your friends, your partner, your home, your stability... and your hair — if that all crumbles away, then what are you left with as a man? What are you? Who are you? You're nothing, says society.
Men shouldn't suffer this strangulation, but we do. We trample over each other in this rat-race for status. And whilst travelling in South-East Asia this year, I realised that I didn’t have to keep playing this game on these terms.
Travel offered a chance to stop, breathe and reflect. After an exhausting job hunt, I’d been lucky enough to secure an exciting graduate role. And that’s status. There’s no denying. But it’s also stability. Security. The ability to move into a city I love, surrounded by friends I adore. And it gave me space – a rare privilege in a turbulent world of social atomisation, climate breakdown, snowballing inequality, a rising far-right. The age of polycrisis.
It was sad to see the hair go. But it forced me to ask what I want from my masculinity. I realised that rather than jostling for superficial trinkets of status, I wanted to define a sense of masculinity on my own terms.
So, as I danced on the beach, swam in the sea or hiked in the mountains; as the humid, sweat-inducing climate worked ruin on my hair; as this crippling self-consciousness haunted me everywhere I went, I decided enough was enough. Why keep suffering this distraction?
It was time to let go.
When the Thai barber's clippers fell silent, I knew exactly where to go: the beach. I threw on my goggles, leaped into the tropical waters and immersed my head under the waves.
I emerged from the water, ran my hand over my scalp and felt this reluctant joy. This unbeatable freedom. Yeah, it was sad to see the hair go. But letting go forced me to ask something more fundamental: what do I want from my masculinity?
And I realised that rather than jostling for superficial trinkets of status, I wanted to define a sense of masculinity on my own terms. One grounded in friendship and community. That cares deeply about the world, and struggles ferociously towards a better one. I wanted to funnel my testosterone-fuelled energy into that vision of what a man can be.
As I climbed this rock to watch the sun go down, a bittersweet smile spread across my face. I’m bald. But finally clear in mind, body and spirit, and ready for the next exciting chapter in life.