Hamlet fut-il chauve ?

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Le traitement cosmétique des chauves ?


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 regard, our hopes now turn to CRODA
And PROCAPIL® 's the name of Action.

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

L'original :


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 regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.—