Modern version

To grow or not to grow, that is the question, Whether it is nobler on the head to suffer The shame and sorrow of outrageous baldness Or to take arms against the fate of hair loss And by opposing, end it? To treat, to shave? No more; yet by a shave to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural threats That hair is heir to,'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To shave, to treat, To treat, perchance to heal: aye there's the rub; For in that flask of tonic what hope is left When we have shaken out the final drop of lotion, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long mane; For who would bear the ridicule of all, The comrade's smirk, the hair'd men's pride, The pangs of jealousy and shame and laughter, The insolence of youngsters and the face That's mirrored every morn' at wake, When he himself might his solution find In hairy implants? Who would hide his head To grunt and sweat under a hairy wig, But that the dread of favored ladies's scorn, The unreturn'ed love we hunker after Makes us submit to every kind of treatment Cosmetic science promised to discover And marketing doth advertise to man. Thus baldness does make targets of us all, And as the natural look of manhood Is subject to the cruel influence of steroids And Samson's fate a menace to our sex, With this look, our hopes now turn to CRODA And PROCAPIL®'s the name of Action.

The Original (Hamlet, Shakespeare)

To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to,'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this look their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.

PROCAPIL®, a SEDERMA anti-hair loss/hair growth ingredient
Karl Lintner, July 14, 2010