Having farewelled my 20s, I’m an expert in approximately two fields. First and foremost, being gay. I love it, it’s awesome and underrated. Perks include never being surprised by a pregnancy, not having to follow the dress codes (applies to both formal events and cringe costume parties), and knowing where the best-iced coffee is within a kilometre radius of any sexual health clinic.
My other specialty — being bald. Also awesome and also underrated. However, I’m gonna come right out and say it: coming out as bald was way harder than coming out as gay!
(Full disclaimer: this isn’t the case for everyone. For certain people, at certain times, embracing your queer identity can seem daunting, frightening, or even dangerous. And I’d like to take this moment to assert that this article is purely based on my own experience. I lucked out with a progressive family, who are too distracted by their own absurdity to waste time trying to change who their child is. And for many who didn’t get as lucky as I did, I see you, and help is available.)
I was behind the 8-ball on both fronts (gay and bald). I worked out I was queer straight outta high school and decided to spend the following four years being in love with a straight guy (I know, wtf). When I came out at 22, the reaction was nowhere near what I’d expected. Let me list three key responses:
- I told Mum I was seeing a guy. I cried, but she didn’t. She asked if I was crying because he was mean (?). I told her I was crying because she wouldn’t have grandkids. She laughed, it was over.
- I also told my best friend. She said she’d known for five years. It turns out I pashed one of her friends in a park once, and he outed me. Hiss to him!
- Came out to the conservative side of my family in a WhatsApp group chat around the time of the same-sex marriage plebiscite. More on this later, but I got a few “good jobs” from some cousins and maybe changed a couple of votes from no to yes.
The bald thing, now that took much longer. For the bulk of my 20s, I became a hat guy. From the moment I woke up to when I turned in for the night, I’d be rocking any number of lids. I’d play off that the reason I’d wear them was because they were funny/cool/ironic. The hat was a vehicle to display my personality. Form over function, I swear.
But beneath the canvas, a darker story was playing out. My hair was long and sparse. I had a side fringe so full of gaps that it almost looked like lace (not chic). Windy days terrified me, and the idea of swimming with new people was a no-go. I loved my life, moved from the suburbs into Sydney’s Inner West, and had incredible friends, but letting go of my hair seemed insurmountable. For whatever reason, I couldn’t trust that the same people who embraced me when I came out would still love me without my (thin, terrible) hair.
Then there’s the fear of the unknown. Put simply: What if I just had a weird-shaped head? Before I came out of the closet, there were role models around me who could demonstrate what life could be like being gay. Shout out to my cousin, my first queer friend, and Peter Everett of Network Ten’s Ready Steady Cook. But the only bald role models in my life were The Rock and Vin Diesel. And while I share a startling similar physique to these kings (jokes), I had no evidence of someone in their 20s embracing their chrome dome.
On the WhatsApp coming out story, using your sexuality to win an argument fucking rules. Shutting down a room (or group chat) full of straight people trying to opine on what is best for the queer community is truly one of my greatest pleasures. Nothing gags a borderline homophobic Liberal voter like, “Surprise! I’m gay!”. I’m yet to find a situation where dropping the bald bomb has the same effect, but I will check back in if I do.
When I finally did work up the courage to shave my head, the relief was immense. I was having a rare night home alone in my five-person share house. I was half a bottle of rosé in, and I just went for it. The catharsis of seeing me, not hidden by hair and hats and hate, was overwhelming. I called my mum and cried. Again, she didn’t. What’s with her?
Before taking the leap, I’d spent hours googling how to transition into my bald era. A lot of advice was to shave at the first sign of hair loss, to play off that the shaved look was an aesthetic choice. I was way past that option, and now that I’m on the other side, I say a big fuck off to this. Being bald is so, so, so fine. Post-shave, I got way more attention with my shiny new scalp. My boss at the time, who was gay and hot, complimented me on my “virile new look”, and I still think about that to this day.
Here’s what they don’t tell you about being bald:
- You save a shitload on haircuts/care/styling. With a bar of soap, a Bic Razor, and a dream, you can get back to your baseline in next to no time.
- You’re more competitive in speed-based sports. I haven’t road-tested this one but just look at the hairless bodies of the 2024 Olympic swim team — the proof is in the pudding.
- A freshly shaved head has the same benefits as Botox. It turns out that traumatising your scalp with the aforementioned Bic Razor pulls all the skin on your face up for about a day. I shave my head about once a week, and I can always rely on my face card not declining for one of these days. Being guaranteed gorgeous 1/7th of the time? I’ll take it!
So, to any future queers or balds out there, let me leave you with this wisdom. It will, undoubtedly, be okay. Take your time and ignore dodgy websites telling you the best way to hide who you are. Build a community around you that you trust, and take whatever safe steps you can to move closer to the authentic you.
And to anyone looking to race me in the pool, let’s fucking go.
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