I've always loved being bald. Dandruff, wasted time, bad hair days and style are just few follicular frustrations that have zero impact on my life.
As well, I don't spend a dime on haircuts, dyes, combs, brushes, shampoo, hair dryers, gel or anything to fight frizz, split-ends or fleas.
And to top it all off, my bald spot is the most erogenous zone on the planet.
My roof is so sensitive and welcoming to touch that, if you put your finger on my column picture and caress my bald spot gently, I will purr a tongue-rolled Austin Powers-like "RRRRR."
Oh, behave. That's enough. I'm in the office and won't be able to control myself if you don't stop.
Anyway, in 20 years of male pattern baldness, there's been nothing negative about the lack of hair on my head.
That changed for a while last week when I did the stupidest thing ever, and I've done a lot of stupid things. (Jordache jeans, every day for three years of junior high?)
The stupidest thing ever happened in my sleep, during a dream about a fist fight.
My opponent, a bald guy I didn't know, pinned me to the ground and was in total control.
As a last resort, I reached up and dug my nails into his scalp.
I was abruptly awoken by the pain and self-embarrassment of discovering, sadly, I had gouged myself right in the middle of the bald spot.
And the one-inch gash was hurting like hell.
It also stood out like blood on ice.
So, all last week, people asked what happened to my head.
Rather than claim it was a skydiving accident or an act of bravery involving the rescue of a damsel in distress, I told the truth - like journalists always do - and received considerable head shakes, heckles and hounding.
The teasing got old really quick, and for the first time since 1992, I began wishing for a full head of hair to cover up the cut.
That digressed into a daydream about what my coiffure of choice would be.
The Bieber? Never. Should be banned.
Donald Trump? Only if his money came with it.
Dwight Ball? Can't answer because I have to remain impartial.
David Beckham? Only if his abs were part of the package.
Dog the Bounty Hunter? Maybe.
Gerry Colbert? Bingo!
The hairy hallucinating ended when I had to rush to the car in torrential rain.
Sitting in the driver's seat, I pulled a McDonald's serviette out of the glove box and dried the dome with ease.
Couldn't do that if I had hair.
Just another reminder that, self-inflicted cut or not, being bald is boss.
Photoshop a Mount Pearl curl on Steve's Bartlett's picture and send it to email@example.com. Your name will go in for the very best prize I can shake out of The Telegram marketing team. Any photos received will be tweeted by @SteveBartlett_