While Levine’s public is reacting by either mourning the loss of his hair or gleefully (but not inaccurately) comparing him to Dan Aykroyd in Coneheads, we’re wondering: What motivated this change?
One imagines Adam Levine looking into the mirror recently only to be disturbed by the beginnings of a receding hairline. “I’m not pretty,” he gasps, choking back tears so that Behati won’t hear. “They will no longer think I’m pretty.”
Without a second thought, he begins to furiously shave, until, satisfied, he runs his hand over shiny flesh: his gleaming request for the world to stop looking at him.
He enters the kitchen, and Behati looks up, wondering what all the fuss was. She’s like, “Looks hot, babe!”
And then he remembers that this is not the bald head of a man whom the world has beaten down, a man who’s been forced to give up. This is the bald head of a man who doesn’t even have to try, because he has a Kmart fashion line and a supermodel for a wife.