Divorced Dad 1: Matthew Friggin' Miller by BlueCollarBaldy

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The final fight was explosive and the fallout of it came not long after, but at 42 years old and just short of 10 years of marriage, Matthew Miller was finally a free man.

The first few weeks, alone, in his barebones, back-to-basics Eastside Portland apartment were too quiet. Not the bad kind of quiet though. He’d just gotten so used to the sound of his wife’s—well, *ex*-wife’s—voice and his kid running around that it felt weird having a place all to himself again. Amanda had gotten the house back in Lake Oswego and weekday custody of Noah. He got custody every other weekend and had to pay child support. He loved his kid like any good dad would, of course, but honestly, there was a part of him that didn’t mind paying this price for the freedom to be his own man.

Matt’s life had always been about routine, driven by his work as a mechanical engineer. The long hours, even longer with all the overtime he’d been taking up since the divorce, were something he didn’t mind because they kept his days busy and made him six figures. But his newfound freedom was in the fact that his nights and weekends were finally his own. Now, no one could yell at him for spending hours working on the 1970 Cuda 426 Hemi he’d been telling himself he’d finish for over a decade now, or for gaming late on Friday nights and early into Saturday mornings, or frankly, even for stripping down butt-naked after work, cracking open a cold one or two, and eating cold, leftover pizza over the sink for dinner. Taking Noah to and from school and sports practice, PTA meetings, and homework help were his mom’s problems now—at least on the weekdays. Like we’ve been saying, Matt was a free man now.

But his real freedom came one Thursday evening in late May, a few weeks after he’d finally settled down into his apartment. Matt got home after an especially long day at work, stripped down as usual, and took a long, hot shower. He reached for a towel to dry off, catching his reflection in the fogged-up mirror. He wiped the mirror with the palm of his hand, then flexed in front of it, naked, looking at his reflection.

‘I still got it,’ he thought, chuckling to himself. As people on the Internet would put it nowadays, Matt was "a total DILF."

Even with all the stress in his life, Matt made it a point to take care of himself, and it showed. He had what most people would call a "dad-bod"—big, burly, hairy, and built for function over form. He was no professional bodybuilder, but women often gave him interested glances in passing; if anything, most attention he got was from men at the gym complimenting him and asking for workout advice so they could get big like him, but that’s beside the point.

He ran a hand through his impressively thick beard and mustache, then through his hair. He had a full head of it—his hairline mature and having gained about an inch of forehead throughout his marriage, but still thicker than what most men his age had—self-cut into a practical regular haircut. He’d stopped coloring in his hair and beard since the day Amanda handed him the divorce papers, and now, his light brown hair showed the natural gray of a man in his midlife.

Amanda used to love his hair. She used to love running her fingers through it, giving him scalp massages when they went to bed every night. He used to love her touch.

It’s interesting, the things we do for love. Before he met the woman he used to call the love of his life, Matt was bald—not because he was losing his hair or anything, but because he’d shaved his head on a sudden urge that came one hot summer night in college and just liked it so much he kept it like that. He shaved it smooth everyday for years, saying to himself that he’d never have hair on his head again. Then he met Amanda, and, long story short, he grew his hair back out just to show his commitment to her.

For over a decade, he’d been fighting the urge to shave it all off and go bald again, just to make the woman he called the love of his life happy. He’d always put her happiness before his own. But now? He looked at the fading tan line on his ring finger. He realized he had the freedom to do whatever he wanted to make himself happy. And for him, happiness was getting rid of the hair that reminded of his ex-wife.

He took the clippers out of the drawer and removed the guard he’d been using when he was trimming his hair just this past Sunday. He plugged them into the outlet next to the sink, then turned them on. Their buzzing was loud in the small bathroom, but Matt barely heard it over the rush of adrenaline going to his head. This could’ve just been another regular haircut, but no more. Matt was done. He held the clippers to his forehead, to his hairline, and ran them straight down the middle, watching the first thick clump of hair fall to the floor at his feet. One quick pass became two, then two became four. He hadn’t felt this alive in years.

When the bulk of the hair was gone, he covered his scalp in a thick, cooling lather of shaving cream and picked up a fresh razor. The first scrape of a razor against his scalp felt weirdly familiar, like he was just picking up where he left off over 10 years ago. He still knew every square inch of his scalp like the back of his hand, and every movement like muscle memory. The thick stubble put up a fight at first, but after a second, then third pass against the grain, there was nothing left but the smooth, clean skin of his scalp.

He wiped the water and shaving cream off his freshly shaved head and from behind his ears with a towel. He looked at his reflection, and for the first time in over a decade, he could recognize himself again.

He was Matthew friggin’ Miller.

Matt ran a callused hand over the smooth skin of his scalp and laughed—the first real laugh he’d had since the divorce. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be bald. How good it felt to really be his own man. The only thing that reminded him of her now was the tan line of where his hair used to be, but that too would fade away.

He faded his beard in with his bald head, then meticulously trimmed his beard and mustache with a pair of scissors to finalize the look.

After another shower, now as a bald man for the first time in years, he went to bed later that night, his bald head hitting his cool pillowcase and rubbing against it. He’d left the window next to his bed wide open, feeling the brisk nighttime air on his freshly shaved head and his butt-naked body. As he stroked his smooth scalp, he thought about how he’d have to stock up on razors and shaving cream and get rid of all his hair products tomorrow because Matthew Miller, despite his newfound freedom, was still a committed man at heart—recommitted to his baldness.

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