With his few remaining silver-flecked chestnut strands pushed discreetly back and trimmed closely at the sides, Larry Conners isn't just bald, he's unrepentantly bald. No comb-overs, no deep side parts, no sad toupées, no drastic Hans Wiemann-style turf-plugs for him, no sirree. Clearly this is a man who's accepted the ravages of age and testosterone and isn't gonna fight 'em like some vain little girly-boy. A wise choice: Minus that atrocious '70s bowl cut that he sported for years, Conners conveys a definite gravitas. That massive forehead, as pure and beige and innocent as an angel's ass, looks both mighty and vulnerable, a spartan storehouse for facts, unsullied by anything so frivolous as a follicle. With his liquid brown eyes and long upper lip, Conners once reminded us of a melancholy rabbit; now he looks like a weary tortoise, wise and smooth and ageless. He's in it for the long haul, and that shiny, sagacious noggin is a giant fist to the world.