Run, Jose! Run!
No, not around the bases. Away from your teammates. They're nuts.
I'd willingly endure the ostracism of 23 or 24 co-workers to retain my locks. I have very little going for me of a physical nature but at 44, I've got my hair and I'm keeping it until nature or something worse takes it. But nobody's coming for my head as far as I know (helps to be self-employed and in a profession that nobody tunes in to watch every night), so I'll get out of my own hair.
I don't mean to project my values onto those of a baseball team, especially one that just combed over Armando Benitez and took the rubber game [1] in a ballpark where they used to take nothing but grief. I'm sure the Mets live a very different lifestyle from civilians like me and it entails a very different series of ethical decisions — and, as long as it's legal, I endorse whatever works to ensure the greater good.
That said, they're nuts with this head-shaving. What are they, twelve? Did they get tired of snapping towels at one another? Do they have any idea how they look? How Shawn Green looks? Poor guy, I want to lift him up by the ears and pour a drink from his head.
So my cap is off to you for saying no way, Jose. You don't need this tonsorial tsuris. You don't even need your cap. Don't let those bald bastards get your curls. They're yours. You're money [2].
Mets win! Mets win! I'm still thrilled, but they're still nuts.