I can’t remember what kind of haircut I had when I first went to the men’s fashion shows in Milan six years ago. But I know it was the wrong one. Zipping around town with a bunch of picky fashion editors, I felt conspicuously dorky. Maybe my hair was a bit too long, or a tad too short, or parted not quite right. Whatever it was, it wasn’t cool.

Literally and figuratively. Every day hit ninety-five degrees, and it was brutally humid—just straight-up nasty. I had gobs of pomade in my hair, most of which was melting on my forehead. At some point during day three, I said, "You know what? Fuck this."

I walked into a marble-floored turn-of-the-century barbershop and told the guy I wanted it all taken off.

Or at least I tried to. He didn’t speak English, I didn’t speak Italian.

"Bzzzzzzzzz," I said, pretending to run a set of clippers over my head. "Tutto."

"Tutto?" he said, he and the other old guys in the shop looking at me funny.

"Si, tutto!"

He arched his eyebrows, rolled his eyes, grabbed his clippers, and went to work.

Goddamn, it felt good.

There’s something freeing about shaving your head. It’s as if you’re shearing off all the anxieties and other crap that have been weighing you down. It’s a clean start. A statement.

And it physically feels good, especially in the dead of summer. No more product, no more itching in the heat. Climb out of the pool, run your hand over your bristly scalp, and beads of water flick into the sunlight. That’s it—you’re done, you’re dry.

I’m not suggesting every guy should reach for a set of electric clippers. Some don’t have the face for it (you’ll need to make the call on that one); some don’t have the girlfriend for it (my wife burst into tears the first time I shaved my head, mostly because I didn’t consult her first); and some don’t have the job for it (you might want to first consider how it’s going to go over at the firm).

And let’s be clear. What I’m talking about here is not the going-bald preemptive strike, like Agassi or Willis. I’m talking about having a full head of hair and saying to hell with it. There’s something rebellious about that. Maybe not in a major way, but enough to put some bounce in your step.

Over the past several years, I’ve looked forward to shaving my head each summer. It’s become an annual rite of vanity—makes me feel a bit younger, a bit more in control, and who knows, maybe even a bit hipper. It gives me the confidence to dress more stylishly. Because when you’ve got a clean buzz, no one is going to mistake you for a middle-management schlub. You might not look exactly like Zinédine Zidane or Beckham, but you can trick yourself into believing you’re heading in that direction.

And lame as this might sound, when you’ve got a full-time office job, a wife, a kid, and a mortgage, there’s not a lot you can do to give your life a kick in the pants. A shaved head is my small—cheap and easy—way of doing that.

If You’re Gonna Get Buzzed

Fade it. Even with a shaved head, you want it shorter on the sides than on the top.

Speak in numbers. Ask your barber to grab his clippers and go with, say, a no. 2 or 3 guard on top and a no. 1 or 2 along the sides.

Wait till Friday. Buzz your head at the start of a weekend. This way, your scalp has the chance to get some sun before you’re back at work.

And on that note, use sunscreen. Your scalp will burn without it.

Jack Black Sun Guard, $20, available at getjackblack.com

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