If that sounds like a beige children’s book title, then maybe that’s semi-intentional. Anyway, after a couple of odd incidents taking place on the same day, I thought that, considering I haven’t touched on this subject for a decent while, I’d take a dive into the phenomenon that is the bald head. Mine, specifically.
I couldn’t see The Incomer at my local Cineworld. Not a huge surprise, since Cineworld’s financial model is very much biased towards the commercial side of things. Even though I didn’t think The Incomer was particularly arthouse. I guess it’s more on the independent side of things funding-wise, though. So, a quick trip on the train to another place that does show more arthouse films. Hop on train, walk to cinema, watch film, leave and walk back to train station, get on train, return. An easy sequence of events. In theory.
Not so much ‘in theory’ when an older woman stops by you at the station and makes a point of coming across to you and giving you a blessing without asking. And touching you on the shoulders after she’s done it. Why me, in particular, rather than any other individual waiting for the train at this present time? I can’t help but assume it was related to one of the fairly rare occasions when I chose not to wear either a wig or a hat on my head. Combined with the fact that I’m female. When I’d stopped wearing wigs every day I went outside – which was pretty much every day – I’d been wearing wigs for over half my life. Attending an all-girls school with a school of about 1000 girls as the only girl without hair on her head wasn’t the easiest experience. There was a lot of the word ‘girl’ in that sentence, and deliberately so. When you’re blasted by images of women in advertising, they’re always going to have head hair. And almost all the time, that’s going to be long hair. You’ll see the occasional ad for men with no hair, since male patterned baldness is fairly common, but a bald woman? Nah. I’ve talked about that long hair obsession a few times before, so I’m not going to get into that too much right now. But spending all of my secondary school days in an environment where every other girl had plenty of what I didn’t was an unsettling experience.
Back to the old woman. I’m sure her intentions were good. She didn’t mean any harm, maybe. But that becomes sketchier when these actions are happening to a complete stranger. Trying to see the situation through her shoes? ‘Oh no. There’s a woman with cancer of some kind. I’ll make her day happier by bestowing this blessing on her. Then I’ll give her more reassurance by touching her shoulders afterwards. Then I’ll be on be on my way, knowing I’ve done a good deed’. Something like that? I don’t know. I’d say I don’t particularly care, but that’d be a lie, because I wouldn’t be writing this post if I didn’t. What gives people that sense of entitlement? I talked to a house member about the experience afterward and they said the closest thing they could compare it to was when strangers think it’s okay to touch a pregnant woman’s belly. I guess my head wasn’t touched in this scenario (I’d like to hope I’d lose my shit if some fool of a Took tried that), but it’s just the sight of the head in this situation that made the woman act like it was acceptable to say that thing and touch my shoulders. Lady? It ain’t.
Sure, the country I’ve grown up in isn’t exactly known for warm greetings between strangers, but you could say the same about a lot of countries. To quote my favourite Simpsons character Johnny Tightlips, I see a lotta things. But I still think it’s pretty basic social etiquette not to touch another stranger without their consent, right? I get the ‘English, motherfucker, do you speak it?’ Sam Jackson quote in my head from Pulp Fiction, then I rephrase it to something like ‘Boundary, motherfucker, do you see it?’. Clearly not, because you’ve stepped right over it. These are just internal thoughts going on in my head at the time, mind you. My introverted self hasn’t got the confidence to voice any of these thoughts out loud. And even if I did voice them, I think I’d feel pretty terrible afterwards, because I don’t think Old Lady Karen meant any genuine harm. But there is that bizarre sense of entitlement that’s just flew in out of nowhere, and I think my bald female bonce was a big part of it. Also worth reinforcing that experiences like this don’t happen particularly often. But when they do, you can be sure I take note of it (uh, the Taken speech is going through my head right now. Just thought you should know). And I took note of it again on the second occasion when I was walking up to the cinema and was greeted by a couple of tourists who I thought were looking for help, but actually wanted me to join their niche Christian cult. In fairness, I don’t think this had anything to do with my lack of hair, I think I was just being too friendly and helpful on a day when I’d already had that weird experience with Old Lady Karen. Less of that shit now. Let’s just stick to the no eye contact method going forward.
But that bald head thing has happened in the past before. It happened in a minor form as I was on the way to a careers service, where another old woman did a kind of blessing thing without asking. I was just wearing a hat on that particular occasion, but maybe she still got the ‘oh no bald woman’ vibes too much and just had to come over and bestow a prayer on my unaccepting atheist ass. Anyway, that was irritating. Not like ‘ruin your whole day’ irritating, but just something that stews in your mind tank for a couple of hours and makes you wonder how some folks have the audacity.
But what was abso-frikkin-lutely a ‘hey look cancer head woman’ from another unwanted stranger took place a couple of years ago at my local pub. Apparently this dude had a bit of a reputation as it was, so that wasn’t great. But, on one of those fateful days where I thought it was cool not to wear either a wig or hat in a public area, this guy just so happened to be there. Started off with a bit of convo about how I was really beautiful. Ok, you’re a bit drunk, I’ll let your bs go on for a little longer. But then he gets in the real selling point: THE MAGIC BEADS. I shit you not, this dude says he can ‘cure’ me with the assistance of his magic necklace that he dangles in front of me. Goddamn. The balls on this goober. I wasn’t going for that. Luckily he safely and securely moved away from my unimpressed figure before he could lay out any more of his bullshit.
Oof, that experience set me right off. Internally, of course. You’d have to start some serious shit if you want me to give you a proper external response. Getting sliced a bit by a broken exercise bike hook that couldn’t tolerate my speed? Nope. Phone call telling me I got into one of the most prestigious universities around? Nah. But seriously, unless you’re genuinely confident that another stranger is in danger or looks like they want to have a civil conversation with you, leave ‘em alone, k?
I’ll attach some of my other hair-related posts below. And some cancer-related ones, too. Light hearted stuff, I know. You’re welcome.