Tuesday, July 01, 2003
Yes, It Grew Back
From the archives: sometime in summer of 2002
I never should have let Vin Diesel shave my head. As is the given for things done that you later regret, it seemed like a fantastic idea at the time.
Vin is about to blow up huge-like; his new movie, Triple X, is going to reinvent the summer action blockbuster genre. He plays a spy who's way into all kinds of extreme sports, be it jumping off something that's totally high off the ground and then skating/rolling/surfing on some found material until his feet are safely back on earth. And then shooting guns and blowing up lots of shit. As a spy, so he's banging exotic broads and lying to them to get them to bang him, so long as it furthers the mission and he gets his rocks off. Vin's going to be the next James Bond and Terminator all rolled up into one, except not all limey pussified like that Pierce Brosnan crumpet. Chicks are not going to bang a guy in a tux unless it's got the arms torn off to show off all an extreme sports superspy's fly tats and rock-hard guns. And he'll probably go gay once in a while just to keep people on their toes and to get the gays into the theater. James Bond would never court the gays, his attitude is frozen in a no-gay-courting timewarp straight out of 1958 London.
So I sit Vin down to do an hourlong interview for a three-inch inset for Entertainment Weekly, but prolly the most action-packed three inches in the history of the mag -- those three inches are going to feature pics of Vin skysurfing, bungie jumping into a shark tank filled with magma, and chatting suggestively with Heather Graham. We're ten seconds into my Q & A and Vin suggests that he shave my head so that my dome shines like his. He knows that Triple X is going to hit so big with its cobranding tie-in with Gillette that guys everywhere are going to go bald in the restrooms on the way out of the theater. He's going to do for bald what Pamela Anderson did for fake tits and gigantic rockstar cocks. His words, not mine, but EW's not exactly going to print that.
And before I know what hits me, I'm bald like Mr. Diesel. I feel other people in the restaurant staring while he shaves my head; you really get a whole new level of extreme sensation from a clean dome. Even a slight breeze across the skull results in a painful boner, but I've found that effect fades over a couple of weeks.
Not everyone's blessed with a head with a shape good for going bald. Mine is, luckily, but you never really know until all the hair's gone. Vin said he could tell, and he was real pleased with the results, which he thought were going to be great for my three-inch inset in the mag: Vin and Bunsen, badass extreme superspy and badass extreme freelance writer who'll go to any length to serve up some hot copy.
What he's not so hot on is the raspberry birthmark on the back of my head that looks like a bird that ate too much pie took a shit on me. Unsexy. Vin doesn't see it until I turn around to look at some chick he'd said he'd fingerblasted in a Port-o-let at the X-Games. He dips his napkin in his water glass and tries to rub the birthmark off, which was nice of him. But when it didn't come off he says that thing about the bird eating the pie and shitting on me. Which I couldn't exactly use for my column. He sees some waitress he knew and leaves me there. I explain the hair all over the table to the waiter, but he'd seen Vin so he was mostly cool with it.
My chromed-dome feels a lot less extreme after the third chemo joke, which really stops being funny after the first one, but are better than the Holocaust survivor ones. My head gets cold quickly.
And Vin goes and tells the bird/shitting/pie anecdote on Access Hollywood. But I don't mind so much. Vin's going to be huge from Triple X. There will probably be ten to twenty sequels, as long as kids keep finding high things to jump off.
And I hear Vin's playing the Hulk in a movie next summer. Maybe the Hulk will look good bald.