There was a time when the thought of going bald filled me with a quiet, creeping dread. It wasn’t just about losing hair—it felt like losing a part of myself, a piece of my youth, my identity, slipping away strand by strand. I’d stand in front of the mirror, tilting my head at odd angles, hoping the light would be kinder, hoping I could convince myself it wasn’t happening. But it was. And now, years later, as I run my hand over my smooth, shaved head, I can’t help but smile. This isn’t the story I thought I’d tell. It’s better.
It started in my early 20s, subtle at first, almost sneaky. A few extra hairs in the shower drain, a hairline that seemed to creep back ever so slightly. I brushed it off. “It’s nothing,” I told myself. “It’ll stop.” But it didn’t. By my early 30s, the evidence was undeniable. The hair on top was thinning, a slow surrender to genetics I couldn’t outrun. I’d keep it short, but not too short—always careful to avoid styles that screamed “balding.” I was clinging to denial, a fragile shield against the inevitable.
There were days when the insecurity hit hard. I’d catch my reflection in a shop window or a bathroom mirror under unforgiving fluorescent lights, and I’d wince. The thinning patches seemed to mock me, a reminder of time marching on. Someone would make an offhand comment—innocent, usually, but it didn’t matter. It stung. I felt exposed, vulnerable in a way I couldn’t articulate. Hair, I realized, had been more than just a feature—it was a quiet source of confidence, a frame for how I presented myself to the world. Losing it felt like losing control.
I spent years in that limbo, not fully bald but not fully haired either, hovering in a space of half-measures and hesitation. I tried the tricks—hats, shorter cuts, even briefly considered those dubious “hair growth” products you see advertised late at night. Nothing worked, not really. The mirror kept telling the truth, and I kept looking away.
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Then, in my mid-30s, something shifted. I don’t know if it was exhaustion from the fight or a spark of defiance, but one day I picked up a razor and decided to end the charade. I shaved my head. Completely. The first swipe was terrifying—there’s no going back once you start. I watched the hair fall in clumps, years of resistance hitting the sink in seconds. When it was done, I stared at myself in the mirror, razor still in hand, and I didn’t recognize the guy looking back. Not at first. He was unfamiliar—bold, stark, stripped down. But as the days turned into weeks, I started to see him differently. He wasn’t hiding. He wasn’t apologizing. He was me.
That moment was a turning point, a quiet rebellion against the story I’d been telling myself about what baldness meant. I’d spent so long dreading it, fearing it would age me, diminish me. But the reality? It was liberating. Shaving my head didn’t just change how I looked—it changed how I felt. There was a rawness to it, a kind of honesty. I wasn’t pretending anymore. And the more I lived with it, the more I realized how much power there was in that choice.
Now, in my mid-40s, I can’t imagine going back. Shaving my head has become a ritual, a small act of ownership over my appearance. And it’s brought unexpected gifts. For one, I don’t have to worry about grey hair. Each shave wipes the slate clean—no streaks of silver to remind me of the years piling up. It’s a small thing, but it keeps me feeling youthful in a way I didn’t expect. Studies back this up too—research from the University of Pennsylvania has shown that bald men are often perceived as more dominant and confident, traits we don’t always associate with youth but that carry their own vitality. I feel that now, in a way I never did when I was clinging to thinning strands.
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Beyond that, shaving my head sparked something deeper. It pushed me to take better care of myself overall. I started hitting the gym more, not out of vanity but out of a desire to match the energy I felt inside. I cleaned up my diet, paid more attention to how I carried myself. It was as if taking control in one area unlocked a drive to do it in others. The data supports this too—studies suggest that proactive steps toward self-improvement, like altering your appearance on your terms, can boost self-esteem and motivation. For me, it’s been a ripple effect, one I didn’t see coming but now can’t imagine living without.
I’m not alone in this journey. My close friend Rudá Iandê walked a parallel path. When I met him years ago, he was still holding on—receding hairline, even a stubborn rat’s tail trailing down his neck like a last stand. We’d laugh about it sometimes, but I knew he felt the same unease I did. Then one day, he shaved it all off too. Now, we both rock shaved heads and trimmed beards, a look we’ve come to own. It’s not that we’d choose baldness over a full head of hair if the universe handed us a magic wand—it’s that we’ve chosen to take control instead of letting hair loss dictate how we feel about ourselves. There’s power in that, a quiet strength that’s hard to explain until you feel it.
Rudá and I have built something together out of these experiences. We co-created The Vessel, a platform for self-discovery, a space where people can peel back the layers of who they think they’re supposed to be and find what’s real underneath. Rudá leads the Free Your Mind masterclass there, guiding people through the process of breaking free from limiting beliefs—about spirituality, about identity, about what’s possible. It’s not about selling you something; it’s about sharing what’s helped us and thousands of others find clarity. For me, shaving my head was a step toward that clarity. Maybe it could be for you too.
If you’re reading this and you’re in that in-between space—watching your hair thin, feeling that pang of loss—I want to tell you something: you don’t have to stay there. Shaving your head isn’t just about hair. It’s about deciding who gets to define you. It’s about stepping into the driver’s seat of your own life. I won’t lie—it’s daunting at first. The razor feels heavy, the mirror feels judgmental. But on the other side? There’s freedom. There’s a version of you that’s unapologetic, that doesn’t flinch at reflections or sidestep compliments. And the science backs this up—research shows that embracing physical changes, rather than resisting them, can lead to greater psychological resilience. I’ve lived it. I believe it.
So here’s my invitation: if you’re losing your hair and you’re tired of the fight, try it. Shave your head. See what it feels like to let go. And if you do, I’d love to hear about it. Snap a before-and-after picture and send it to support@thevessel.io. We might even feature your story in a future piece—because this isn’t just my journey or Rudá’s, it’s ours, and maybe it’s yours too.
This isn’t about baldness being better or worse than having hair. It’s about choice. It’s about looking at the things we can’t change and deciding how we’ll meet them—head-on, with courage, with ownership. For me, shaving my head was a small act that became a big statement: I’m not here to be defined by what I’ve lost. I’m here to shape what I have. And you can too.
The world will tell you a thousand stories about what you should look like, what you should fear, what you should hide. But those stories don’t have to be yours. Mine used to be about loss—losing hair, losing confidence, losing time. Now it’s about reclamation. It’s about standing in front of the mirror and liking the guy I see, not because he’s perfect, but because he’s mine. That’s the power I want for you—not just over your appearance, but over your life. Take the razor, take the leap, take control. You might be surprised at how good it feels on the other side.
