Goshen, I’m sorry. I am. This will all be over soon.

The Mainstage opens Friday. We’ll perform for two weeks, and this ordeal will finally end. Until then, no matter where you are, I will be there, smirking. I will hover behind Umble Center like the Anne Hathaway Eye of Sauron, staring. Staring into the distance.

(In case you missed the images of my gigantic, Les Mis’ed noggin … I shaved my head.)

So far, people have reacted in affirming, bemused, and confusing ways. Comments range from  “What the hell would possess you to do that? Art?” to “Don’t worry, you’re still pretty!” (For the record, the second comment troubles me infinitely more than the first.)

Hair has never really interested me, but it gives me a lot to wonder about. For example, where am I supposed to hide all my secrets now? What do I do with all this conditioner? Why do these earrings look so big? Is this what Sinead O’Connor feels like?

Apparently, hair also gives me a lot to worry about: according to sociologist Rose Weitz “good hair” not only indicates attractiveness but increases a woman’s likelihood to procure good grades, dates, marriage proposals, higher salaries, better job offers, and so on.

Well, frick.

Luckily, I don’t understand the phrase “good hair.” I also don’t understand the word “pretty” – probably because pretty’s not the point. My bald head is not the result of a calculated zenith between  “different” and “still moderately attractive.” Ain’t nobody got time for worrying about that.

Here’s the reality – I sleep in longer, I use less water, I don’t fret over split ends or lost bobby pins or a greasy fringe. I feel awesome. I look awesome. I am occasionally mistaken for Chad Coleman instead of  Zooey Deschanel – but you know what? It ain’t all bad, folks. In the words of II Kings 2:23: “Go up, thou bald head; go up, thou bald head!”