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There are 5 stages in the Kübler-Ross model for dealing with grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Where am I in this model? Somewhere in the abysmal ether between the intransitive verb form of balding and the adjective form of bald. Soon, I won’t just be balding, I’ll just be plain bald! I find this particular state not so unlike purgatory, begrudgingly waiting for that someone to conjugate this verb slightly; to shift the paradigm of my life with one phrase; to note in passing to a mutual friend as they point my way and say, “Who’s your bald friend?”

No, he’s not bald, my friends would defend. He has a shaved head! Surely, you can see the stubble that rouses out from his scalp, resolutely defying all resemblance to Lex Luther, Gandhi or (God forbid) Howie Mandel. But then again, denial is merely stage one and I’ve already come so far. No, there is no more denial or anger. There may be bargaining at hand though, depending on whether or not I can employ my seasoned bartering skills with God and have him, once more, bestow upon me that raven mane I once wore.

And yet, I ask myself, will I ever be able to walk into a hair salon again and ask for a haircut without being faced with suppressed mirth and sly grins?

Recently, I needed to find some oil for my clippers and I wound up in Zellers wandering aimlessly down fluorescent aisles looking for some kind of mythological oil product that no one seemed to know about. If you’ve ever owned clippers, you will know how difficult it is to find replacement oil.

As I was ready to give up, I stumbled upon a large, red, neon sign that read “Magic Cuts” right there inside this vast and sterile discount department store. Should I continue my interminable search for clipper oil or just pay the requisite $20 for a quick trim? Laziness seems to always prevail.

The moment I walked in, the entire staff of barbers and stylists paused and glanced up from their work chairs, simultaneously turning off their noisy clippers. The silence, broken only by the stereophonic muzak coming out of the ceiling’s speakers, caused me to consider turning and fleeing in the style of Road Runner.

“Can I help you,” asked the middle-aged, jerry-curled receptionist.

“I need a haircut.” Why else would I be at Zellers?

She smiled and looked up at what remained of my youth atop my head: hair soft as goose-down, clutching to my scalp like dying leaves in autumn.

Yes, I thought. I really do need a haircut. I’ve got a hot date with a gorgeous Turkish webcam girl and no amount of high-contrast, blurring or pixelation would spare her the unsightly wreath of shag around my ears. My clippers were rusted, and I had no salad bowl. Perhaps I should be glad that I still need clippers to cut my hair, rather than being sufficiently equipped with a pair of tweezers.

And so, I sat down and she proceeded to work her so-called magic cut. It took approximately 6 minutes and I was whisked out with a wave and good tidings.

I’ve considered skipping one of the stages of the model, and move forward. I mean, why waste time being depressed about this loss? I would much rather move past that stage, and side-step into the Fünke model with the help of some plugs. Or… should I say 4,000 plugs?