A love letter to bald men

I want to see you in the nude.

Dear Baldie,

I see you. Yes, you.

The one who thought he’d go unnoticed, lost in a sea of people with a full head of hair. The one who’s clearly unaware of the power they hold over someone like me—someone who lusts over you from afar, eyes glittering with hope, mouth dribbling with desire.

You may think it’s too good to be true—a mockery, even. But I assure you I’m as real as the succubus you dream of, and this is indeed your reality.

I’m the woman who sees a man with a mane and scoffs, unimpressed, uninterested, and unfazed.

It doesn’t attract me, nor does it incite the feelings you, Baldie, can.

Whether your hair is something you once had but lost—or something you never had enough of to begin with—I need you to know that it never mattered to me. I never liked it anyway. It was never my thing.

For a while, you may have even resisted your identity as a Baldie, forcing yourself to be another—a man with hair.

Maybe you’d desperately tried styling the wisps on your head into something you’d hoped resembled lush locks, carefully swishing each strand from one side to another, geling down any remaining follicles in an attempt to cover the nudity of your scalp and shield it away from the gentle breeze it's oh-so accustomed to.

But after a while, you realized its futility.

The more time you spent styling your hair—if we could’ve even called it that—the less of it you ended up having. Either that, or the more it looked like you had none.

So, barely hanging on by a thread (or two), you took the leap and shaved it all off.

I know it was hard. Initially, you may have even sulked, mourning what once was.

Except, if we’re honest, there wasn’t much there to begin with.

So it’s not a physical sorrow you experienced, but a spiritual one—an acceptance that you’re not what you thought you’d be: A Baldie.

But there’s no need to fret or cry over bygones, Baldie, because by doing that, you’ve opened new doors.

What you didn’t have then is what you have now: access to me.

You’ve piqued an interest that sparked the moment I saw the way your scalp glistens, like a diamond in a parade of matted black, brown, red, and blonde mops—none of which excite me as much as the nude.

To me, you stand out. You shine. You are everything.

Your bald head may only reflect the light around it, but to me, it glows from within. It’s its own source of power. It both radiates and draws me in, a two-in-one beacon and magnet, impossible to ignore.

Its smooth, rotund surface is a 3D rendering of the globe stripped of oceans and forests, left only with the richness of land.

Be it shades of cream, bronze, or honey, it’s a world of possibility and beauty uncovered, ripples and folds in uncanny areas—areas I want to explore and trace with my finger, eyes, and tongue.

So when you leave the house, Baldie, don’t be shy. Don’t hide behind a cap, bandana, or woolly hat. Let me see you as you are, bare as you are.

Because when I see you, I see myself. Not just as the reflection in your polished crown, but as the part of me you’ll one day carry inside you, just as I’ll carry you in my heart, forever.

With love,

Derya