Being 13 years old means a lot. You're officially a teenager. You hit puberty. You start learning more about yourself. Unfortunately, more people learn about you as well. When I hit 13, you could see the oh-so-little patch of skin appearing. This roundabout only grew bigger like it wanted to say hello to the world. I knew what was coming: the chrome dome.

The progression from freshman year to senior year was pretty gut-wrenching. I was pretty normal looking for the most part. Here I am during a marching band trip pictured with my sister during my first semester in high school.

Within a year of this picture, my hair had given up. I'm going to my sister's senior prom as a sophomore with her friend. I was young for my grade, so I'm only 15.

Once I hit 16, my junior year of high school, I did the usual routine of sitting down for 10 minutes in a barber's chair. Naturally, the entire time praying, reasoning, hoping, accepting my fate and of course internally screaming that I don't look like an idiot. Everything was fine... and then she gets to my bangs. I get up from the chair and as it turns out my widow's peak of a hairline had receded so that the center of my hair was more forward than the sides. See figure II in the following picture and idea.

There I am in band class, the next day, and I'm in the back row with the brass section as a trumpet player. A flute player stretches and our eyes meet (sort of). It was more her staring at this giant landing strip of hair protruding down my forehead and I noticing. Naturally, one glance wasn't enough for her or the other girls around her.

The juiciest part would be what happened after junior year. Now I'm looking like V from that chart. The dying forest of hair really complimented my great wingspan of my ears, if I do say so myself. I'm sure by now you can see how great my situation was. I am only 16 in the following picture. Lady killer.

Fast forward a year after this: I wanted it gone. It is Jan. 4, 2011. It's a new year. I needed some change. I buzzed my hair. I'm excited. It was pretty freeing. I was done, it wasn't not enough. I doused my head and I lathered it up with shaving cream as if my life depended on it. It did, trust me. I went at it like a surgeon performing hair surgery.

There's a few things I learned from that:

1. My head was bumpy. It was like driving through Marietta, Ga. and hitting every pothole.

2. Skin gets sunburned. My head is all skin.

3. Girls definitely stare at you. This wasn't the same as the flute player bewildered by that landing strip mind you. You kind of stick out, but I started to receive compliments.

Patrick Stewart, according to Deseret News, said, "I believed that no woman would ever be interested in me again. I prepared myself for the reality that a large part of my life was over." I didn't hear about this until I was already bald, and it was odd hearing from a famous man how he couldn't stand his situation at my age. I was happy about my shiny new look. I had the easiest Halloween costume that year that I've ever had to do.

Now, I can't even go to the doctor's office without someone telling me about a loved one with a bad comb over and they wished they'd shave it off. I can only laugh and tell them to attack them with a razor when they're not looking so they'd have to. If I were to wake up tomorrow with a full head of hair, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I'd probably go to town on it with a razor. Not without giving my self a nice mullet first probably.

I was always self-conscious about it because I didn't know what to do. Once I went through with it, I can make as many rub-my-head-for-good-luck jokes and missing hair one-liners as I want. Of course I have the mother of all jackpots of my progression: high school student IDs. If you meet me, feel free to ask for them; I'm a handsome devil.