Hairline Fracture

As anyone who has seen me, or my picture in the paper, can testify, I have what can only be described as a monstrously huge forehead. And it's getting worse by the month as my hairline recedes further and further back across my cranium, racing to the point where it will eventually meet up with the back of my neck. My only real comfort is that, if this keeps up, I won't have to worry about a hairy back.

This would be fine if I lost all my hair on top. I could go the way of so many men in my neighborhood — give up and just shave all my hair off. One by one, the scalps have disappeared around here, leaving me one of the few settlers still trying to keep his patchy growth intact. Just this week, yet another guy who lives around the corner threw in the towel and went with the Kojak look.

The worst part, however, is that my gene pool has left me with a tuft of hair in front that mimics — almost mockingly — a hairline. It forms a little curl at the front of my head, an island in a sea of chromy dome.

I know just where this comes from, too. In our front hall, we have a family photo taken somewhere around the turn of the century. My Irish immigrant great-grandfather is posed stiffly in the middle, with what seems like 18 kids all around. Each of the boys, and one or two of the girls, has the trademark island of hair. My grandfather, just 17 at the time, looks depressed and angry. It's probably because he's not even old enough to grow a beard, but already has the hairline of a senior citizen.

My wife's family, on the other hand, has no problem in the hair department. They all keep their thick locks well into old age. My father-in-law has better coverage in his mid 80s than I had in middle school. The problem on my wife's side, however, is premature whiteness. Most of them start going white in college and, by the time they're out on their own, have thick healthy snow-white hair, sort of like Santa Claus. Our 18-year-old son is sprouting some white already.

Each of our children, then, is stuck between a rock and a bald place. They could either end up as furry albinos, or resemble one of those dancing Munchkins who greeted Dorothy with lollipops.

The other week, my 11-year-old daughter came home from school, glaring at me.

"Mom says it's all your fault!" she said.

I quickly thought of a number of things that probably were my fault, but kept a poker face and just said, "What's my fault, honey?"

She pointed at the top of her head, pulling her hair back. "This!" she said.

Still hoping to avoid the discussion I knew was coming, I faked confusion.

"What happened?" I said. "Did you get hurt at school?"

"Know what the kids at school have started calling me?" she said. "FIVE HEAD!"

When I just shrugged my shoulders again, she smiled sarcastically.

"Wanna know why they call me that?" She folded her arms. "Because it's bigger than a FOREHEAD!"

I glared at my wife, who still has her luxuriously thick curly mane, still golden brown thanks to regular applications of Clairol.

"Hey," I called out to my daughter, who was stomping up the steps, "it could be worse! It's still brown, isn't it?"

To find out more about Peter McKay, please visit www.creators.com.

COPYRIGHT 2008 CREATORS SYNDICATE, INC.