Not so long ago, I blogged about how dorky it is to wear a helmet when riding a bike.

I wouldn’t be caught dead without one, mind you. I sorta like keeping what little I have inside my head, inside my head.

But wearing a helmet just screams “DUFUS.” Or maybe it’s “DOOFUS.”

Actually wearing the helmet, however, is only half the battle.

The other challenge with bike lids comes once you take it off.

First of all, there’s the inevitable helmet hair.

On some folks, it manifests itself as a sweaty, matted mess.

Not me. Frequently I shower just before heading off to work, and since I haven’t actually dried my hair since my junior-high mullet days, my hair tends to be a little damp when I leave the house. Bike helmets are vented to keep your noggin coolish, and my hair gets pulled into the vents. The whooshing breeze quickly dries the hair into an awesome, unmistakable wave ‘do that looks not altogether unlike Aquaman’s worst perm ever.

My kids never tire of making fun of my organic mohawk, but most of my co-workers have the decency not to mention it.

One, however, buttonholed me the other day to talk about something important, and I couldn’t help but notice his eyes kept wandering up. He couldn’t contain it, eventually pointing and blurting, “Your hair looks funny.”

I thought about taking the matter to HR, but I don’t think “bad hair day” is a protected class, so I dropped it.

The other problem with lids is lugging them around.

When I’m on the roll, even a simpleton like me could figure out the brain bucket and bike are intertwined, but something about seeing an adult male walking about without the bike as backdrop tends to confuse some people.

Normally I’ll lock the lid up with my bike, but I’ll haul it around with me if there’s a chance for rain or I’m afraid it’ll get swiped. I’ll get strange looks, and frequently somebody’ll ask, “So, what’s with the helmet?”

Usually, I’ll fess up, but sometimes I’ll clown with the questioner.

Among my favorite responses:

“Shh! I’m a base-jumper, and once the guards are looking away, I’m going off the roof!” (This one’s especially effective in one-story buildings).

“Mother said I’m a danger to my head.”

“I’m just naturally klutzy.”

“Mongo like football.”

“I’m going spelunking later. Care to come along?”

If they persist, I’ll give ’em a conspiratorial wink, tap my head and point to the sky, explain it’s no ordinary helmet and is designed to keep “them” from reading my mind.

Apparently the only thing more disconcerting than a grown male cyclist is a raging paranoid.