Bald of You

I have a theory about bald guys.

It is based on a sample size of three, which feels like plenty of evidence for a blog and probably slightly shy of adequate evidence for a medical journal.

My dad is bald. My big brother is bald. And I recently had a client meeting with a man I’ve known since I was a kid who is—you guessed it—bald.

All three are well educated. Excellent public speakers. Very good negotiators. Funny as hell.

These are men who can hold a room, make a point, and land a joke. And I can’t help wondering if there’s a connection between the courage to embrace a bare head and the confidence to show up as yourself.

Somewhere along the way, each of them committed to the look.

Here’s my head.

Here’s my face.

Let’s get on with it.

I appreciate that.

And obviously, I would be remiss if I failed to mention Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.

My affection for that man is well documented, so he absolutely gets an honorary cameo in this study, pending his availability for a client meeting...

DJ (can I call you DJ?), if you’re reading this, I can be flexible.

I also appreciate that each of these men has something about him that could be intimidating.

Maybe it’s his presence. His intelligence. His delivery.

The sense that he knows exactly what he thinks and is perfectly comfortable telling you.

Depending on the day, that can be reassuring.

Or it can make me briefly forget that I, too, know things.

That’s where my bald-guy theory gets a little more personal.

Because I can admire someone’s confidence and still occasionally respond to it like I’ve been called into the principal’s office.

Am I nervous? Am I in trouble? Did I miss something? Should I explain myself? Should I explain myself again, but with more words and significantly less dignity?

This gets especially interesting when the person across from me has known me since I was a kid.

I may arrive with experience, ideas, and a whole business of my own, but some little part of me is still checking to see whether the grown-ups approve.

Never mind that I am also a grown-up.

I've survived multiple decades. I send invoices. I have opinions about insurance.

The paperwork is conclusive.

And yet, there are moments when someone else’s certainty makes me hesitate to trust my own.

What I keep noticing, though, is what happens when I move through that hesitation and say what I actually mean.

The conversation keeps going.

The humor is still there. The familiarity is still there.

They haven’t suddenly become smaller, softer, or less confident. I’ve just stopped treating their presence as evidence that mine should shrink.

That’s a useful thing to catch myself doing.

In these relationships, the discomfort is often mine to work through. I’m anticipating a response before I’ve given the other person anything to respond to. I’m feeling intimidated, then quietly assuming that means someone is intimidating me.

Meanwhile, the guy across the table may simply be sitting there, being bald and discussing the project.

There’s something almost annoyingly liberating about realizing that.

Because it gives me something I can actually practice: speaking my truth at the right time, to the right person, without first making it small enough to feel harmless.

I can respect someone’s education and trust my own experience.

I can appreciate a strong negotiator and still negotiate.

I can love my dad, admire my brother, value a client, and disagree with any of them.

The relationship has room for that. I need to let myself occupy it.

Maybe that’s what I’m responding to in these men: the apparent comfort of being fully visible. The willingness to have a presence. To be funny, capable, direct, and recognizably themselves.

I’d like to bring more of that into my own conversations.

With hair, ideally. I’m attached to mine.

But with less second-guessing. Less unnecessary explaining. A little more willingness to let a clear sentence stand there without immediately dressing it in three disclaimers and a nervous laugh.

I deserve to carry just as much weight in the room as any of these bald men.

I don’t need to wait until I’m the most educated person at the table, the best speaker, or the least nervous.

I can feel the nerves, take a breath, and make my point.

Turns out, I can keep the hair.

I just need to bring the bald.

Move Like It Matters.