I HAD a date last Saturday night. "Who is she?" my brother asked over the din of my electric razor. "A Harvard Woman," I answered.

My brother was impressed. He went to Brown.

Anyway, I got ready for my date. I wore that new flannel shirt and fished through the drawer for the clean pair of socks I keep for just such occasions. I even did my Frank Burns imitation and checked for nose hairs in the mirror. I left nothing to chance.

And it seemed to be paying off. We were grooving--almost to the point where we would share childhood stories and discover our many Things In Common. Then it happened.

I fussed with my hair.

I guess it's a nervous gesture from the days when my mother insisted on cutting my hair herself--taking special care that it looked really, really silly (of the "are you a boy or a girl" variety). I quickly became obsessed with my hair, intentionally messing it up to send a signal to all potential tormentors: Yeah, my hair is silly. Wanna make something of it?

Lately, as I come to terms with the prospect of being bald as a cueball well before I'm old enough to drink, the hair-rub has developed an affectionate twist. Hey hair, how ya' doin'. Just checking to see if you're still there.

Anyway, there I am grooving with this babe, chewing on a tasty piece of falafel, pretending to be sweet and sensitive...

I rubbed my head.

And the flakes came sprinkling down.

I HAVE fond memories of snow. In second grade, I used to wake up several hours before the rest of the house to listen to Jim Scott's school closings on WKRC. During my first year, the first snowfall was greeted by a huge party in the Yard.

Unfortunately, my memories of dandruff aren't so great. Besides the botched effort at romance (read on, read on), I keep thinking of those damn Head & Shoulders commercials. You know the ones. "It's about your flakes," the healthy athletic dude says confidentially to his hip pal while pumping iron.

Dude A gives Dude B his shampoo. They both go on to be swarmed by beautiful women and produce many offspring. "You know, you never get a second chance to make a first impression."

Of course, I never believe television anymore. But way back when--oh, maybe two or three years ago--I was an impressionable youngster. Imagine my horror, sitting at a cozy table for two at Skewer's, trimmed nose hair and clean socks, my eyes and hers meeting for a short, beautiful moment...and an army of angry white flakes storming into my field of vision.

Let's get this straight--I tell this tale not for sympathy (I could always dwell on the hair-loss thing for that). No, my strong social conscience refuses to allow me to remain silent. I have been a victim of a vicious societal prejudice.