This is a difficult topic for me to write about, because for all my god-given deficiencies for rock ‘n roll stardom, from having a “big-boned” build only suitable for being a member of The Guess Who to the even-more challenging hurdle of an overall lack of talent, I am blessed with a good head of rock hair. At nearly 57, my hair is wavy, thick, and still maintaining enough of its original territorial hairline borders that, even as I run a few weeks past my usual time for a haircut and wild, wiry tufts won’t behave, I don’t run the risk of being called the “bald guy with long hair,” like David Crosby.
Nevertheless, sometimes I panic, walk up to my wife, turn around, and ask her if I’ve got a bald spot. I notice continued traces of thinning at my part line and, for a few seconds, allow myself to silently mourn those lost follicles in front of the bathroom mirror. In hair terms, I’m basically the multimillionaire asshole who’s griping about the hardships of our current pandemic lockdown on the economy, the business owner who’s laying off “nonessential” staff to keep his investors happy. I apologize profusely for being, possibly, the wrong messenger to cover the topic of Hollies drummer Bobby Elliot‘s cutting-edge role as a balding, hat-wearing fashion pioneer. But someone’s got to tell this story.
