My hair is so gray it makes thunder clouds look bright and cheery. Being gray doesn’t bother me. After all, at least I still have a full head of hair. I don’t have to do comb-overs, shave my head or wear a baseball cap 24 hours a day to pretend that I still have hair. And it’s distinguished looking. Strangers might think I’m a doctor or a lawyer or a high school graduate instead of the boob I really am. At least they might think that until I open my mouth.

Like many men, for years I thought my hair had magical, mystical Samson-like powers.

“Who’s going to get the promotion? Let’s give it to the guy with the best hair.”

“Who’s going get into this exclusive nightclub? The guy with the best hair.”

“Who’s dating that supermodel? The guy with the nice hair.”

“Who should we arrest? The guy with the bad hair.” Look at those mug shots. Bad haircuts, every one.