welcome to the baldie stories blog.

Maybe you're bald, maybe not, maybe you care, likely not; stories here, some funny, some not.

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Stories used for publication of Baldie Stories 1 have been removed from this blog.

Monday, July 26, 2010

The Awkward Therapist

This story will be available in "Baldie Stories 1", through Kindle.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010


     A clean white button-down, a stiff collar and some nice close pattern; floral, paisley, geometric but nothing zig-zaggy – and always with an earth-tone, something to meander around in, a breeze, maybe a shadow of a breeze – and a sharp crease in a long leg. Those things and a pair of shoes with a nice line, a good finish and a balanced seam. That’ll do. That’s enough. For me, nothing fancy. I’m not fancy, I’m barely there, barely, but neatly; existant.
     Him, he’s slinky, slinky into the office, slinky around the meetings – we work well together, set each other off, do daring things with ideas, plans, spreadsheets – the differences are our strength; Together we have tidal waves of strength, moxie, balls. Different styles, different manners, different. It's like this:
     His shoes find him on Madison Avenue. I get my kicks on Sixth, in a box in a bag. Everyone’s got their own thing.
     Those suits he’s wearing – Barney’s – Boss – Fifth, yeah, yeah - Fifth Ave for them deep pocket rides; fabrics I can’t pronounce, far away places, exotic countries, weaves that dazzle, colors of the rainbow, perfect balance, daring, evident, masterful. Okay, okay. I got bin-picking elbow, who’s ashamed? You? Not me. You care? Not me. I’m comfortable. Mostly. Mostly comfortable…
     Except for the hair. He’s got the hair; it’s some growing stuff, real, very alive, fast – it’s got a mind of its own - I got some, some hank of hairs; he’s got a fine wild steed’s mane, I got the hairy kneecap of an old mule topping the top of me.
     The hair of his, it grows so fast he can’t keep up – he’s doing things with it daily to show who’s the boss of the stuff, He’s doing magic tricks with it – different styles, morphing moves, sudden shifts, tricks; it’s a live show, effortless - he’s past the old hat hairdos, I’ve seen those come and go, a few a day sometimes.
     I recognized twenty or thirty that had names - that was the first month:
     The Princeton, the Harvard jumping off a Crew, grows into a Brush Cut and slides into a Square Back – this in a matter of days!
     Not a word, never a word, not about the hair. He never lets on, not even a glance upward...
     This is what he'll do: He’ll run a French Crop, push it over into a Pompadour, and then bounce it back over into a Fringe – then he smiles, takes an afternoon off, and shows up again with a Crop, sneezes into a Flat-top, and laughs his way into a Caesar.
     I’ve seen things on that head of his that defy the laws of physics. He’s worn a Mule with a Battlement Fringe, a Landing-pad tied back to a Weeping Widow! He’s had an Augustan flanked by Rolling Curls in the morning only to be transformed in a one-run to the toilet into a Saddle Twist humped by a Faux Mullet!
     And me… I got this mange, this startled lacking, this bony bit of a mule's kneecap touching off my fine style. What can I say? There's not much to work with. You pull the knot in your tie a little tighter, that’ll put some color in your scalp. A few pushups.
     It keeps me up nights, I’ll admit, a few hours, just a few – but add’em up – those hours, you got something, something tired, tired looking, hard to manage. Bitter. Maybe something bitter. I don’t know. Too damned tired. Hanks of hair.
     Differences, choices, makes a good team, good team.

Saturday, July 10, 2010


This story will be available in "Baldie Stories 1", through Kindle.

Friday, July 2, 2010


     The 8:45 was allergic to her own hands, itchy welts rose up, multiplied as she scratched, her body literally crossed out again and again and again in self-denial; he couldn't even look.
     11:30 couldn't feel his tongue whenever he said the word "love". The frightened muscle dropped dead in his mouth. The patient's wife was filing for divorce.
     12:00 had anger issues and carried a rag mop everywhere she went. Arrests were frequent and often followed by trips to the emergency room.
     2:00 showed up every day at 9 am and waited.
     5:15 - this was something special. If you stacked up all the psych texts, all the journals, articles, references and case studies, you still couldn't reach the branch that this cuckoo-bird rested on. 5:15 was bald and frightened of his own head - sweating, running-in-place nightmare frightened - of his own head. The pale lump of it terrified him. He didn't have to even see it in the reflection of a shop window, or, heaven forbid, a mirror - just knowing it was sitting up over his eyebrows made him moist with fear. Looking at his toes gave him a jolt because it was a short skin-walk to the terror-dome.
     5:15 had some sweet life before his hair began to recede; a terrific career as a race-car driver, and horticulturist of note; the guy - you knew him by name - had a line of organic pastry shops across the country, one wife, six kids, and fourteen homes across the globe.
     Then his hair began to recede. Each hair lost was matched by the loss of a marble, and every marble that rolled away drew with it a bit of that piled up fame and fortune.
     Now, a full year and a half later, 5:15 is down to his last few hairs, which combined, amount to just about one last marble, one last dollar, and one last scream.
     5:15 was a pip. A real pip. He'd be sad to see him go.