All you gorillas.

The Daily Star, Britain's best newspaper for naughty news and using words like "boffin," reports that there may be a clue to the origin of baldy sours like myself, and thus a solution: 

Baldness could soon be cured after boffins discover the 'caveman gene'

Scientists claim that humans are only largely hairless because through evolution we have disabled the 'caveman gene' which would otherwise leave us with a full coat of hair

Sounds promising! 

Boffins reckon they can cure baldness following the discovery of a “caveman gene” which caused our ancestors to grow hair.

They found humans are largely hairless because although we have the genes for a full coat of hair, evolution has disabled them.

Scientists say the breakthrough could lead to ways to regrow hair in bald people, those undergoing chemotherapy or alopecia sufferers.

So now the situation becomes clear. We who suffer from male pattern baldness are not "freaks" or "losers" or "skinheads" or "cue balls" or "glabrous" or "chrome domes" or "chihuahuas" or "tile tops" or "balloon heads" or "necks blowing bubble gum." We're just farther along from the stinking hairy subhuman ancestors than you hairballs are. 

  

A typical meeting of hairy guys

I understand that the hair attracts the ladies more than the lack of hair does. Some chicks have always dug the cavemen. As Joanie Sommers sang in 1962's immortal "Johnny Get Angry," 

Oh, Johnny get angry, Johnny get mad
Give me the biggest lecture I ever had
I want a brave man, I want a cave man
Johnny, show me that you care, really care for me

At least she wasn't asking him to sock her in the nose. 

As we of the lesser-hirsute variety must endure the mockery, out loud or silent, of our fuzzy friends, it's not surprising that we hope for a genuine cure for our polished position. The Star story says that it could be just around the corner, thanks to some other boffins, and links to a piece about Concert Pharmaceuticals' deuruxolitinib, a "selective inhibitor of Janus kinases JAK1 and JAK2." The company announced successful phase 3 trials last November. Apparently it really helped a lot of people, young and old, regrow hair. (No word on whether it made them grow hair on their backs or anything.)

I think it would be lovely to have a pill that would help regrow scalp hair, especially for women who suffer from baldness. For men it can be a trial, but for women it's a disaster. 

I'd like it just because it would help me pass for one of you paleolithic types, which could be useful. But it's not a big deal either way. I have a lot of hats, and I know how to use them. 

Pate.

Alas, poor Yorick, fellow of jest

For joshing, no doubt was the best

Now for sure his skull is shiny

As mine old scalp, or baby heinie

I drive the car and mirror glance

To see one tailgate there perchance

And lo! My hairless head is seen

Within the glass of my machine

The mirror taunts my fuzzless pate

As hairless as a china plate

My father, his hairline did bequeath 

His will did list no hair beneath

My follicles failed, all tired, old

Before their time and left me cold

Now hats, beneath which I must hide

For warmth that nature won't provide

A collection of caps that grew in size

As hairline crept north from my eyes

The sand trap in the rear grew vast

Sahara size, I found, at last

So, cover up that scalp with cloth

To hide the skin that nature's sloth

Has left me high and dry and bare

With just a stray hair here and there

Alas! Poor hair! I knew you when

But now is now, and that was then

At least by one fear am not haunted

Could not grow man bun if I wanted. 

A little nick.

 

That crazy Lou -- always taking things too far. 

The power of clean.

 Ranked from weakest to strongest, the fundamental forces of the universe are: 

• Gravity
• The Weak Nuclear Force
• Electromagnetism
• The Strong Nuclear Force
• The Power that Attaches a Hair to the Side of a Toilet

Got the spider!

Baby dog Izzy was off to the groomer yesterday morning, so I put aside my paying labors to clean the bathrooms. It's very difficult to do any chores around the ten-month-old scamp, because when chores are attempted he goes through a few stages, all of which are useless:

1) Curiosity -- What is going on?

2) Participation -- I'm going to help!

3) Frustration -- This is boring and smells bad.

4) Interference -- This is stupid! Let's go play!

It's much better to take any opportunity when he is not around to get things done. 

So I'm glad that's done, but today is Ash Wednesday, which means it's time for me to consider cleaning something much more gross than any ol' bathroom -- my miserable soul. I'm not going into hiding this year like one of the Desert Fathers, nor have I planned to give up anything like chocolate, like one of the Dessert Fathers. (rimshot) I'm up in the air at this late date about what to do for Lent, but I'll do something. 

Meanwhile, remember how glad I was yesterday that I survived February without a big fall? Guess who stepped on black ice this morning and introduced his hip to the tarmac? Yes, your old pal Fred. Izzy sort of freaked out, while Tralfaz just laid on the snow looking at me. Man's best friend. 

Shaggy dogs story.

Do I own the hairiest dogs in town?

Yes.

Here's one of those lint-removing roller brushes, shown before and after running it over my sweatshirt. 

Before

After

We're on our third major vacuum now since we started with the hairy beasts, and that doesn't count the Dyson for hard floors and the ol' Oreck. The Oreck, which predated the Hoover acquisition, was a fine machine for normal carpet use, but couldn't keep up with two hairy dogs. It sits upstairs, where the dogs seldom go. 

The thing that I would like to see is a laundry additive that helps get pet hair off clothing. You'd think that would be a layup for the boffins who make this stuff, but apparently not. Bounce makes a dryer sheet that supposedly helps get the pet hair out, but that's no-fly territory around here. Not because it's manufactured by the evil Procter & Gamble, but that my wife is concerned about dryer sheets being a fire hazard. I do clean out the vent, but is it this fire thing a myth or not? Who knows? Anyway, The Boss Has Spoken.

One thing we have tried is this:

The FurZapper goes into the washing machine and the dryer and magically removes pet hair from clothing. How? The rubbery things do the dance with your clothing and rub the hair off it. In the washer the hair goes down the drain; in the dryer, into your lint filter. So, we tried them. 

The problem is, it's hard to say that they work. There's still hair on the clothes. But would there be more if we didn't use them? I can't really tell the difference between loads done with or without the FurZapper. There's always more puppy glitter than I would want to see.

Everything in life is a trade-off, I know, and you can't have big ol' cute fuzzy dogs without a lot of dog hair around. We do our best to keep on top of it, but it's a Sisyphean task. I keep threatening to weave a toupee out of it, but so far my wife has managed to stop me. I just think it's unfair that I have more hair on my shirt than on my head. 

The buzz on the fuzz.

Greetings, friends! Reader Mark dropped a line the other day asking about the beard project that I had announced back on January 9, to wit: As a lockdown protest, and something less troublesome than a tattoo or a mid-life sports car, I was going to grow a beard. So, what happened to it? 

Then I realized there were some other topics broached during the year to date that deserved follow-up, so here's a run-down on the works. 

BEARD

So yes, about the beard. Well, if this winter feels like it's been as long for you as it does for me, you might imagine that my beard has become like that of the legendary Charlemagne, whose beard was not only silvery and long but was said to have continued to grow after his death until it filled the sarcophagus and eked through the joins. 

But I stand before you today barefaced. With an explanation.

Shortly after I began the Facial Fungus Project, my wife announced we had been invited over to friends' for dinner a couple of weeks hence. I had to promise that if I still looked like a grubby prospector at that time that I would remove the growth to preserve a neat appearance. And alas, I looked worse than Humphrey Bogart in the last reel of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, and thus the beard had to go. My spirit broken, I have not returned to the project since. 

DOG

Friends have been asking me how we've coped in the last month since we lost junior varsity dog Nipper. And indeed we are still sad. But people have also been asking how senior varsity dog Tralfaz is getting on without his little buddy, and that's more complicated. 

Fazzy was never really close to Nipper; Nipper always wanted to jump and play, and Fazzy is more your laid-back observer-of-the-scene type. So they never really bonded the way we had hoped. 

The strange thing is that I expected we'd fall into our old pre-Nipper patterns from four and a half years ago, but for a big guy like the Fazz, that's half a lifetime. New patterns were set. Tralfaz was perfectly happy to let Nipper take the lead on playtime, snacktime, and general attention-demanding time. I wouldn't ever call him a sidekick -- he's way too independent -- but he liked having the little guy take the initiative. So he's been a bit confused as to how to act. Consequently, when he does want something, it's all whine, all the time. Drives us nuts. 

But he's still a sweetheart, and we love him. We're all just a little confused. 

DIET

I would like to say my attempt to cut down on unhealthy food is going along fine, but you see, I suffer from hand, food, and mouth disease. My hand shoves food in my mouth, and my mouth eats it. 

If I weren't wearing sweats all the time here in New York, Lockdown Land USA, I would have a better grip on my progress. Sweats are too forgiving. They tell you everything is fine; have the cheesecake. Khakis and jeans are less so. Work denim has little mercy. Dress pants will give you one warning, then the pants will rip on the day of your presentation. 

I think I've made progress, but as I reported a few days back, since the loss of Nipper my Fitbit thinks I died. Nips always wanted walks, but Fazzy is less interested. So the exercise level is down.

There are my excuses explanations. What's new with you?

To beard or not to beard?

When people are feeling stressed and need a change, they often go out and do something crazy or stupid or expensive or some combination. Like buy a car they cannot afford, get a massive and inappropriate tattoo, spend a month with black-clad idiots trying to break into a federal courthouse, or drink themselves stupid and legally change their name to Céline Dion in a blackout. So many choices!

Me? I'm considering a beard.

I've been cleanshaven now for more than a decade. The last time I started to grow the ol' fungus was when I got laid off from a job (a job that I hated, but still) and went on a facial strike -- no shaving until I got an interview. The church pastor saw me at one point and startled, like I'd shown up wearing cartoon hobo clothes. Ultimately I did shave before I got an interview, because it was summertime and the beard was too itchy.

That's one of the anti-beard arguments, that while it's growing in it's unpleasant on the face. 

A pro-beard argument, though, is when it gets thicker it gives us some protection from the cold. And we got plenty of cold here at this time of year.

The one time I really had a nice, well-groomed beard was about the time my wife and I were engaged. The engagement photo in the paper featured the lovely bride-to-be and me with a real nice Sherwood Forest face and proper hair. Well, the hair ain't coming back, but the beard could. 

Of course, that's another thing about beards that are pro- and anti- ; when your hair gets thin on top, they at least give you the appearance of hair. But everybody knows that's why you grew it. Then you look like one of those upside-down hair/beard drawings. 

A beard isn't really a labor-saver. Gotta keep it neat. I still have to shave the neck. I don't want to look like one of those hell-bound creeps who drives a rental truck into a crowded Christmas market.  

My wife says I don't need a beard because I have a sharp jawline. But a beard is more than camouflage. It's a way of looking at the world and saying... I have hair on my face, world! So there!

I'm about four days in and still undecided. Sadly, four days in I still look like I just forgot to shave one morning. My family is not known for five-o'clock shadow. But it will get there in time.

So what do you think? Beard yes? Beard no? Your vote counts! At least here it does.

The pipes are piping.

Good day, YouTube world, and welcome to Uncle Fred's Home Repair show. Today we take you deep into the bathroom of Uncle Fred's house to show you yesterday's project -- a project you can complete in your very own home with your very own hands. Or, if necessary, someone else's hands. Watch these clips.

So here I am examining the sink in my wife's bathroom. (You viewers may remember my #1 tip for domestic harmony when possible: separate bathrooms.) Seems that her sink has been running slow. Now, the cap on this kind of drain plug can be unscrewed. Many people don't know that, because it unscrews to the right -- righty loosey, in this case. Maybe it's Australian? Anyway, here it is off, and look at that hair! Somehow, some hair from her head has gone into the drain. We'll have to pull that out. I'm using a needle-nose pliers and a long, thin screwdriver to get the tangle. And it's just a little clump. Why is human hair so nice on the head and so awful everywhere else? Just a rhetorical question from Ol' Uncle Fred.

Now here I am in the hallway after that job, deep in thought. You can tell because my lips are moving. The drain in my shower has been awfully sluggish. Can it be a hair issue? Ah, you say, Uncle Fred has precious few hairs on his head. That's true. Maybe an armadillo died in there. Let's open 'er up and have a look.

For this job I'm using a long piece of metal in lieu of a screwdriver. Why? Because the piece of metal was in the junk drawer in the kitchen, so it saved me a trip to the cellar. We just put it in the screw on the drain cap and -- There we go! The screw is loose and -- huh? It's not pulling out? Let's pry up the drain cover and --

HOLY CRAP! It looks like someone's been scalped, and the scalp stuffed in the drain! 

Here we see Uncle Fred retching as he pulls his own gooey, sticky hair clumps out of the drain. The upside is that there's no clog in the pipe. The downside is, it's disgusting. This is why Uncle Fred admires professional plumbers so much. This is gross enough when it's just my own hair. If it was some stranger's hair it would be worse. 

With the old hair pried out, we just return the drain cover with a few twists of the metal stand-in for the screwdriver and the job is done. Easy, right? The only question that remains is: Why is there more Fred hair in the drain than on Fred's head? Maybe some mysteries are not meant to be solved. 

That's all for today. Join us next time when Uncle Fred deconstructs a leaky toilet and calls 9-1-1!

Hairum-scarum.

It was with some trepidation and yet enthusiasm that I approached the task of doing what acclaimed fictional moron Forrest Gump once warned everyone against: "Do not try to cut your own hair."

Armed with my wife's hand mirror, my electric razor, and my new Chinese-made "professional" hair clipper (that's what the box says), I faced the bathroom and steeled myself for the task of cutting off my quarantine-distress tresses.

The easiest way to do it would be to get scared and trim my upstanding hair, but I am not a cartoon character.

Being a man, I had to wait until I was alone the house. Why? Because when a man wants to do something that has the possibility of being a complete disaster, he has to wait until he is assured of being alone. Meaning, no wife present. Because if she knew I was planning to do this, she would have started to make rational arguments, like:

1) The barber will be open in a few weeks, and I know it will be a mob scene for a while, but so what?

2) Who cares if your hair is a mess? You work from home and we're not allowed to go to church. Everywhere else you can wear a cap.

3) If you must do this, let me cut your hair, maybe outside where it won't make a mess and all the neighbors can see. It'll only take an hour or so.

4) Haven't you watched enough episodes of AFV where children get hold of Daddy's clippers and take big chunks out of their hair? You want to look like that?

There's no point in trying to reason with a man determined to try something stupid. She ought to know this by now. She grew up with a dad and brothers, and she and I have been together a long time. Why does she have to be so reasonable?

So I set to the task. I put a trash bag in the bathtub floor to protect the drain, since I didn't want hair flying hither and thither (especially thither). It was go time.

It seemed easy enough on the YouTube video I watched, but that guy wasn't trying to turn a faux hippie balding mess into a crew cut. At first it seemed good. The hair at the base of my neck was coming up easily, but I was pushing the hair above it out, and when I checked my progress it looked like I was wearing a hair hat. I realized that short strokes were the way to go with this clipper, and kept at it, being careful not to drive it into the scalp and create more bald patches than nature had already provided. I trimmed the back of my neck and cut down the sideburns too, and used the scissors provided with the clipper to get the loose bits.

Overall I was satisfied. Shorter than I expected, but it felt like freedom. It took about twenty minutes, but I did end up with a uniform cut, at least as far as I could tell with the mirrors. The hair went in the garbage can; I took a shower to get rid of any little hairs, and then waited for my wife's return and the accompanying shriek.

On the whole, she took it well.

Dramatization

You guys know that horrified look. "You quit your job?" "You bought a dog?" "You bought a motorcycle?" "You sold the house?" "You quit your job and sold the house to buy a dog and a motorcycle?" "You cut your own hair?" That look.

Once the shock wore off, she admitted I did a not terrible job, although she doesn't like it that short because she thinks I look like a During Treatment patient in an ad for Memorial Sloan Kettering. also, I gouged a little too deep going sideways on one side, but I barely could tell. Of course she asked why I didn't let her do it. I explained that a man sometimes has to do something dumb and don't cotton to no womenfolk telling him otherwise. That also did not go unchallenged.

Anyway. the damage is done, and I think it's okay. If it grows in funny I still have the clippers. And a number of baseball caps. So all is well.

For a breath of fresh air.

IN THE LATE AFTERNOON OF April 22, 1915, members of a special unit of the German Army opened the valves on more than 6000 steel cylinders arrayed in trenches along their defensive perimeter at Ypres, Belgium. Within 10 minutes, 160 tons of chlorine gas drifted over the opposing French trenches, engulfing all those downwind. Filled with pressurized liquid chlorine, the cylinders had been clandestinely installed by the Germans more than 3 weeks earlier. The order to release the gas was entrusted to German military meteorologists, who had carefully studied the area’s prevailing wind patterns. Disregarding intelligence reports about the strange cylinders prior to the attack, the French troops were totally unprepared for this new and horrifying weapon.

So writes Dr. Gerald J. Fitzgerald in "Chemical Warfare and Medical Response During World War I" (American Journal of Public Health, April 2008). This was the first known use of a chemical weapon, and it blasted through the French lines with terrible effect. But, as typical for World War I, the Germans were not prepared to follow this advantage, so everyone wound up back in the same positions within days. Not that such weapons were not effective. "By the time of the armistice on November 11, 1918, the use of chemical weapons such as chlorine, phosgene, and mustard gas had resulted in more than 1.3 million casualties and approximately 90,000 deaths," writes Fitzgerald.

All this going around and wearing masks to fight the Chinese Death Virus has made me think a bit about mask-wearing in the twentieth century. They say gas masks used in the Great War killed the beard for men for fifty years. Blake Stilwell in We Are the Mighty writes, "Just twenty years prior, beards were a common sight in the Spanish-American War. Troops and their officers thought nothing of a well-grown face of whiskers.... When the Germans started using poison gas on World War I battlefields, the Army started issuing gas masks — and these new safety razors. Suddenly, shaving was a requirement as well as a lifesaving tactic. In order for these early gas masks to fit properly, the men needed to be clean-shaven."

"May I borrow your safety razor, old chap?"

One of the things my high school class had been taught by a history teacher was that troops had been told to use damp cloths over their faces to protect themselves from mustard gas, but that tactic actually made mustard gas more effective. This was greeted with a typical Har har stoopid past people fighting wars so stoopid from the class, which seemed to be the attitude of the teacher. However, I am unable to find any evidence now to back up that assertion. I did find that in the early days of chemical warfare, according to The Canadian Encyclopedia, a damp cloth did offer protection against chlorine gas: "Some of the Canadian soldiers who had been trained in chemistry had recognized chlorine gas from two days earlier and had instructed men to wet cloths with water or urine to offer minimal protection."

I guess instead of N95 masks they had P95 masks (yukk yukk). It would seem to make sense to use a dampened cloth, as water droplets would close more gaps in the fabric, but I have found little on this either way. If any of you out there in Blogland know anything about it, I'd love to hear it.

This leads me to today's thoughts:

1) I'm glad we are currently battling a virus and not huge rolling clouds of chlorine gas.

2) It's unlikely that the Chinese Death Virus will cause a change in men's facial hair.

3) World War I was hell.

4) People I see around who don't know how to wear masks and always leave the nose exposed would not have lasted long in the trenches.

5) No matter how bad things may be from COVID-19, we are not losing 1,300 men every single day, as was the average daily death toll for the entire length of that war.

Maybe it's not a cheerful Friday thought to know that things could be worse -- but hey, they could be.

Larry as Max.

What you think you'll look like when the apocalypse comes:

What you look like when it does:

But replace the shirt and sweater on the great Larry Fine with a T-shirt and sweatshirt.

As you may recall, I have been reveling in the fact that I bought a skid of toilet paper for the house before all the bad juju went down. Just happened to be in BJ's Wholesale Club with a Cottonelle coupon burning a hole in my pocket and I said, Why not? And now I leap about in my TP pool like Scrooge McDuck in one of his money vaults, only TP is a lot softer than money.

But one thing I did not think to do was get a haircut. And the barbershops have been closed for a couple of weeks, with no end in sight.

This is tough on the barbers, and it's doing me no good whatever either. I am a bit thin on top, a genetic gift from my old man, and that means I can't grow out my hair in any stylish way. I just look like Larry, or Bozo, or any number of silent-film comedians with hilarious scalps. As I have complained in this space before, the only way to deal with this is to keep it short. How can I do that?

Even Forrest Gump advised "Do not try to cut your own hair." So where can I turn? My wife is a woman of many talents, but is no hairstylist. We have some tools for emergency dog trimming, as our dogs are ridiculously hairy beasts, but that stuff isn't meant for me, and she'd probably buzz off half of my hair by accident.

On that note, I am taking Tralfaz to get a dog bath and trim this week; maybe I should just stick out my head and ask the groomer to zap me while she's at it. "There's an extra ten spot in it for ya!"

No, I guess I just have to make peace with the fact that the duration of Coronageddon will see me with bad hair sticking out at the sides. Fortunately I have a lot of caps.

But mark my words: When all this is over, and the morning comes that sees those striped poles turning again, the doors will be jammed not with long-hairs needing a trim but with balding guys running for the chairs. Someone's gonna get hurt. Certainly if they get in my way.

A couple of classics.

When I was a kid, the dads tended to fall into one of three camps: Old Spice, Aqua Velva, or Skin Bracer. You'd meet the occasional Brut or even Hai Karate dad, but they were more likely to see overly friendly, like a salesman who couldn't turn it off at home. My dad found that Skin Bracer hit him just right.

But there were some classic colognes and aftershaves that had and have a recognizable scent, ones that just were not much in use by dads in the time and place where I grew up. I've not made a collection of them, but sometimes curiosity has overwhelmed me and I've felt obliged to try something like...

Clubman by Pinaud has been around since 1810, and smells like every just-for-guys barbershop I've ever entered. The omnipresent scent probably comes from the Clubman powder, with which every neck got brushed following the haircut. It's a nice, manly scent, a little floral but mostly woody, a little musky. I do find it a bit strong in the aftershave, though, so I will use a little Purell with it in my palm when I slap some on. I never want to be That Guy, the one who knocks people a step back because of his strong cologne (good or bad, a strong smell from a guy makes people react poorly).

This cologne, however, I found to be a little scary:

Supposedly Florida Water, an even older product, on the American scene since 1808, is named for the legendary Fountain of Youth that Juan Ponce de León sought. It's got a very spicy scent, clean rather than musky, and I would not have guessed that it contains oils of lemon, orange, and lavender, but it does. It also supposedly has a lot of spiritual uses for all kinds of pagan practices, but arrant nonsense aside, it's a pleasant enough product. I tend to thin this also with Purell, which may be why I have enjoyed no spiritual cleansing. The one mystic power I feared was that using Florida Water might turn a guy into a Florida Man, but the company that makes it is in New Jersey, so I think it's safe.

What do I usually use? Well, I like an alcohol-based aftershave because it kills germs (keep that flesh-eating bacteria out of your razor nicks!), it dries fast, and it feels clean. So I keep a pump bottle of Purell by the sink and usually just use that. For special occasions I may break out some fancy-pants cologne I got as a gift. But, every once in a while, I'll buy a bottle of Skin Bracer and use that, and remember my dad.

Gee, your wasp smells terrific!

Yesterday morning I was taking the dogs around back when I noticed the little bitches hard at work under the deck. No, not the dogs; my guys are male. No, I mean the B-word in the female and pejorative sense, regarding yellow jackets working like demons to build nests. It's a favorite spot every spring, so I am vigilant.

One nest was barely started, but was being constructed by the biggest wasp I've ever seen; the other was a bit further along and I could not see the punk inside. Time to get the spray.

I'm not one of those chaps who can't bear the thought of using poison, lest I imperil the groundwater, the animals and children, the atmosphere, the living things. No, when it comes to yellow jackets, I say Hiroshima the bastards and fast. If I could get them all on a planet and nuke it from orbit, that's what I'd do. 

Unfortunately I had only a tiny bit of wasp-killing spray left -- check the supplies in advance, lads! I mostly had the can of hairspray that sits on the porch, the one used to knock down bees in flight. It's cheap hairspray but nicely scented, and most flying insects get completely gummed up with one good shot. Then I smash them into atoms.

The hairspray was not that helpful in this case. The wasps were too far up to get a good shot; also, hairspray doesn't shoot for distance the way wasp sprays do. It chased them away, but I think it just made them smell nice. They returned after a while.

Beehive!

Fortunately I was able to find a can with just enough wasp poison to chase away the huge YJ permanently, poison her foundation, and kill the nest of the other one. I later went to Home Depot for a double Valu-Pak of poison. I'm allergic to the pests and I'm going to make them allergic to me if they show up again.

So that was my Wednesday -- dead and/or nice smellin' wasps. People get all weepy about the bees, but no one seems too worked up over hive loss with yellow jackets. That's because they're evil. No wonder I flunked them.

(NB: Yes, fellow oldsters, I know Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific was a shampoo, not a hairspray -- in fact, it still is; you can get it at the Vermont Country Store. Unfortunately they still don't have Hai Karate.)

What's on my mind.

The Sunday during the Octave of Christmas ought to inspire my mind with many profound thoughts. If not that, then the Sunday before New Year's Eve should, or the Solemnity of Mary. Or simply the passing of time, the candle's wick diminishes, the call of winter echoes, the checks will say 2018 for three weeks into the year, and the trash men have Tuesday off. Ah, but none of those things are on my mind today.

It's cold, and I wish I had hair.

Hair is never around when you need it. My old man was very proud of his coif, and it paid him back by abandoning ship when he was in his early forties. I'm the only one who inherited his hair, or lack of it. Jesus tells us that "Even the hairs of your head have all been counted," and my head makes it easier than most.

Of course it's unfair. I have male friends in the sixties and seventies and one close to ninety who have full, flowing hair, generally in a stately shade of gray. This Key has no locks. My hair color is "scalp." So what's a guy to do when his mane starts making for the exits like the theater is on fire?

Before Christmas I had to go shopping with my wife for a last-minute present for a teenage girl. This took us to Forever 21, not a store I frequent, nor had ever actually set foot in before. In fact, my hairline is evidence that the concept of "forever twenty-one" is unlikely. Anyway, among the many things in that establishment that would not normally interest me were the hairpieces:

Stylish, huh? And I thought, Hey! No one would buy me in a bad toupee, but in a bad wig? A "fun" wig?

Nobody is expected to think that's your real hair. If you saw a girl in a club with one of those crazy wigs, your mind might say "That's fake hair" but your lizard brain might say "Wild hair!!! She looks like fun!" Of course, her real hair is probably not missing, like mine, but is beneath the wig, tied up in a bun so tight that when she smiles her kneecaps go up her thighs.

Now, I had to wonder, what would it be like to wear one of those?

Pretty great, huh? And as Don Imus used to say, I'm comfortable enough with my manliness to say long hair makes a fella good-lookin'. Don't you think?

Okay, back to the scalp look. And lots of hats.

Hair apparent.

If only dog hair were a useful commodity. I'd have a lucrative side job at the least.

I know I'm a little obsessed on this topic. We knew when we got Nipper, Dog #2, two years ago that we'd be up to our knees in dog hair. Dog #1, Tralfaz, was a big hairy fellow with lots of hair to spare (and share). The second one isn't as big, but seems to have an amazing ability to turn over the stuff. My wife groomed him, removing every loose hair she could, and the very next morning clouds of the stuff were drifting off him. I was petting him on the porch and the summer breeze was carrying little drifts of Nipper out over the grass. It was snowing dog.

Besides choking one vacuum cleaner to death, wearing a second almost out, and testing the limits of the (so far so good) Bissell Pet Hair Eraser, there's not much you can do with dog hair. Even if it's soft and silky, as is particularly the case with Tralfaz's fuzz, you're limited in what you can do.

Not that some folks don't try. There are people who spin yarn from their dogs' hair and knit with it. There's some that will take your collected dog hair and do it for you. A dog blanket that's literally a dog blanket -- what better way to remember Bella after she's crossed the Rainbow Bridge?

And really, is dog hair different than cashmere (goats), angora (bunnies), or alpaca (alpacas)?

Yes, because, dog.

I don't know, there's just something weird about predator fur being used as to keep you warm. Now, if you kill it and skin it like the Nemean Lion, that's different. Plus, Heracles kept the head attached. Made him look mean.

And, naked.

But that's useless to me here. I'm not skinning and tanning something I regard as a pet.

I just can't see any use for all this dog hair. Sure, it would make a great toupée for me, but no way would anyone believe it was real. Too much like... dog hair.

The only way I see it working is as a toupée for Chihuahuas. They get cold. But, they have no money. Alas, another great business model down the drain.

Hair 'em, scare 'em.

Since my hair decided that we would have to begin dissolving our relationship some years ago, I always thought that the upside was less time thinking about hair. Fewer trips to the barber, less concern about hairstyles and products, bed head and hat head of little notice, much less hair to pull out of drains and sweep off of floors. And indeed, while my wife's got a luscious head of hair, for years there was little attention paid on my part to the keratinous commodity.

Then we got two large hairy dogs.

I've seen this meme going around dog-loving circles:

All I can say is, we must have the most pixie-blessed house in town, if not the state. Spring cleaning came this weekend, and we exhausted ourselves, our Swiffer Dusters, our Eureka floor vacuum, our Bissel Pet Hair Eraser, our Swiffer SteamBoost, our blood, sweat, and tears -- and there's still dog hair around.

You keep feedin' 'em, they'll keep makin' it.

I have to wonder what TV's Burt Ward, who famously houses up to 50 dogs at a time (and runs a dog food company), does about all the dog hair. He's often focused on short-haired big fellows like Greyhounds and St. Bernards and Great Danes, not long-haired hippies like our dogs, but I'm sure he's got a lot of hair here and there. Hell, I've pulled dog hair out of an electrical outlet; we found a hair in the freezer. That glitter goes anyplace it can. How does he deal with it? He must have a staff, but how does anyone deal with dog hair on the industrial level?

It's a constant battle. It's also a testament to our dogs' lovability. But despite it all, we somehow manage to keep dog hair out of the food. So if you ever come to dine here at Seven Keys to Baldpate, you can rest assured that you will never find a dog hair in your pasta fazool. And if you do, it's just glitter.

Clip joint.

I used to care a little about where I went to get my hair cut. I wanted a manly barber with old guys who could shave your neck properly, with soap and a straight razor and a hot towel. Now I don't much give a damn, as long as it's short. My hair hates me, so I'm going to hate it right back. 

Last week my hair was getting kind of shaggy. It had grown to a length than in my teens I would considered "Marine." I tried a Great Clips nearby, for one crucial reason -- it was in the same strip mall as the supermarket. Location, location, location. Mind you, they probably get a lot of balding men and the children of harried mothers, but their job is to make money, not art. 

The gal behind the shears did a good job, although with her rubbing that electric device all over my scalp I began to feel sympathy for the alpacas of the world. It was over in no time and didn't cost more than any barber I ever went to. Did not get a proper neck shave, but she did buzz that too, so it was fine. Sideburns came out even. What more do I want out of life?

I was amused by the fact that they had a poster in the window, advertising for a mascot, someone to stand outside and hand out coupons and things. Basically this guy:

I told the lady when I sat down that I would be interested, but I already had a job and I already dressed funny. I may have been overqualified, really.

Not that I have anything against mascots -- as the French say, au gratin! I wrote an entire novel about a man who meets real-life mascots. Looking at that costume, though -- probably hot and clingy. Too much for me. I think of mascots as we would the purple cow, that I would rather see than be one.

It would appear, by the way, that the mascot's name is "Suds." Were I Suds, I would insist that "They call me Mr. Suds." I'm sure some terrified child would kick me right in the ol' curling iron. I would not last a day.

As for going to Great Clips, I think they're fine, even if you're not a wailing child or a middle-aged man in a state of abject despair over your male pattern baldness. And hey, they sponsor NASCAR, so that's kind of manly, don't you think? I wonder if the announcer ever says "The Great Clips car just cut the other driver off!" I would.

The beards bursting in air.

A friend of mine popped up at church Sunday with not one hair on his face. This was astonishing, as I had never seen him without some kind of whisker -- full beard, goatee, handlebar, lump of fuzz on his chin, something. As it turned out, having rediscovered his bald face, he decided he didn't like it, didn't think it had aged well, and was planning to cover it up again as soon as possible.

It got me to thinking about our hirsute age, where so much facial hair is about, where it's never been easier for men to shave and yet so little shaving is being done. And yet, with Independence Day upon us, it dazzled me that we've had so few U.S. presidents with facial hair. Other fashions have come and gone with presidents as with the general population, politicians following rather than setting the fashions -- presidents didn't make powdered wigs take a powder, and Kennedy did not actually kill the male hat. But despite the fact that respectable men have been growing facial hair since the 1970s, we have not had a serious candidate for the office with a mustache or beard since Thomas Dewey, who ran in 1944 and 1948.

Maybe the 'stache is why he lost.

Have a look at these portraits of the presidents. Lincoln is, as in so many things, a pioneer, our first chief of the executive with facial hair beyond some comical sideburns. After the break with Johnson, we get quite the run -- Grant, Hayes, Garfield, Arthur, Cleveland, Harrison, (McKinley abstains), Roosevelt -- until Taft finishes the chain of hair in 1912. Since then, 18 presidents in a row with no hair on their mugs at all, our longest unbroken streak.

It's an out-of-date collection, but I hear that Trump fellow also has no beard.

The post-Civil War era when all these presidents had all that foliage was one of great industry and optimism in America, and I have to wonder if our longstanding malaise could be combated by leaders with big ol' beards. Not the female leaders, of course; that would be weird. The men would just have to beard up enough to cover all of them.

I'm not sure if that would do the trick, though, as the biggest beards I'm seeing since Duck Dynasty went off the air tend to belong to hipsters, who produce no hope or optimism and for a very large part no industry. In fact, one sees all too little of our old can-do attitude these days; more of our where's-my-friggin'-entitlement attitude. Rather than the unity of E pluribus unum we have the splintering of Unum de multis.

But it's hard to ignore the argument put forth by P. G. Wodehouse, himself no bearer of beards. In his 1956 book America, I Like You (in the UK published as Over Seventy), Wodehouse wrote an ode to the American beard and the American spirit. I hope his estate will not come down on me too hard if I reprint it on my humble, advertising- and profit-free page, in the interest of encouraging my fellow citizens to pull up our socks, tuck in our shirts, grow some fuzz, and get out there and do something big:

The world is in a mess today,
Damn sight worse than yesterday,
And getting a whole lot worser right along. 
It’s time that some clear-thinking guy
Got up and told the reason why
America has started going wrong. 
If laws are broke and homes are wrecked,
It’s only what you might expect
With all the fellows shaving all the time. 
Yes, sir, the moment you begin
To crop the fungus from the chin,
You’re headed for a life of sin
And crime. 

What this country needs is whiskers
Like the men of an earlier date.
They were never heels and loafers
And they looked like busted sofas
Or excelsior in a crate. 
Don’t forget it was men with whiskers
Who founded our New Yorks, Detroits and San Franciskers.
What this country needs is men with whiskers
Like the men who made her great. 

The pioneers were hairy men,
Reckless devil-may-care-y men,
Who wouldn’t have used a razor on a bet.
For each had sworn a solemn oath
He’d never prune the undergrowth;
Their motto was “To hell with King Gillette!”
And when they met on country walks
Wild Cherokees with tomahawks,
I’ll say those boys were glad they hadn’t shaved. 
When cornered by a redskin band,
With things not going quite as planned,
They hid inside their whiskers and
Were saved. 

What this country needs is men with whiskers,
For the whisker always wins.
Be it war or golf or tennis
We shall fear no foeman’s menace
With alfalfa on our chins. 
Whitman’s verse, there is none to match it,
But you couldn’t see his face unless you used a hatchet. 
What this country needs is men with whiskers
Out where the best begins.

What this country needs is men with whiskers
Like the men of Lincoln’s day.
At the Wilderness and Shiloh
They laid many a doughty guy low,
They were heroes in the fray. 
Theirs is a fame that can never die out,
And if you touched their beards, a couple of birds would fly out,
So let’s raise the slogan of “Back to whiskers!”
And three cheers for the U.S.A.

Happy birthday, America.

Feather your nest.

Two outdoor phenomena this weekend of note: My wife groomed the dogs on the porch, and once again a robin is building a nest under the deck. There may be a connection here.

Tralfaz, the large dog, is very hairy but has settled into more refined, mature hairiness. Nipper, the little guy, is just a fuzzbomb every day. It's the softest, sweetest hair and it is all over the house. If you come over and it's in your lasagna, trust me when I say we did everything to prevent that but it happens anyway. It's a force of nature.

Therefore, on Sunday it seemed to my wise Mrs. that it would be a good idea to give him (both of them, but mainly him) the Furminator treatment outside, where his tufts of hair could go wafting away and not clog up the vacuum cleaner brush for a change. And so she did, and a fine job of it she made, too.

When I was coming up the path later, I saw these tumbleweeds of puppy fur on the grass in front of the porch, and my first thought was What kind of weed is that? even though I knew what she'd been doing. It just made for a lot of ground cover.

How does this relate to Mrs. Robin in the back? As you know, birds will use a lot of found objects in their nest building. She used a big string of polypropylene twine as part of her nest, and it dangles down like a bell pull.

I suggested to my wife that the bird might be smart to use some of Nipper's puppy fuzz to make for a soft, warm egg-hatching environment.

Mrs. Key then wrote the dialogue for this endorsement:

NIPPER™ brand fuzz hatches eggs 43.7 % faster than other nest stuff!*
*Based on actual studies of actual birds by bird scientists.

Nipper would be thrilled to know he had helped foster new baby birds. He tries to catch and eat any birds he sees on the lawn. Hasn't caught one yet, fortunately.

Happens to the best of us.