Published on January 25th, 2015 | by Richard Black2
Retreat!!! The Battle for My Hairline Has Commenced
Yesterday morning I was in the bathroom in the process of…well it doesn’t really matter what I was doing. Let’s just imagine for the sake of propriety that it was tasteful. I’m a very private person and why in the hell can’t you people leave me alone?
Anyway I was in the bathroom and I noticed that a few hairs on my scalp appeared to be striking out for new ground and were noticeably in front of my hairline. At first I thought that it was pretty strange to find a few hairs so far out of place on my head. My body’s been sprouting hair in some pretty unlikely places over the past fifteen years and wondered “why shouldn’t my forehead benefit from this one quirky and slightly off-putting aspect of aging?”
I made a mental note to Google something about it later, which I promptly forgot, and then went about the rest of my day. At least that’s what I would have done if I were a normal person.
Having been blessed with a truly spectacular case of OCD that allows, nay compels me, to reconfigure the layout of the dishes in the dishwahser about fourteen times a day I obsessed about these outlier hairs for the next twelve hours. Here’s an example of my train of thought such as it was:
“Is this some new consequence of aging I’ve never heard of? I mean hair on a guy’s forehead? It would be cool if I were a werewolf! What if it keeps growing and the hair on my scalp connects to my eyebrows? Would I get it waxed? Could I shave it? I’ll bet there’s a promotional opportunity out there if I grew a uniforehead. Maybe Nair. Man it would be really cool to be a werewolf if I were single and didn’t have a kid. I wonder if I could get a cheap flight for the family to London. Laura loves London. Man I could go for a pina colada. Who sings that damns song anyway?”
My brain looped this conversation, more or less continuously, until late in the afternoon to the refrain of Rupert Holmes”(Escape) Do You Like Pina Coladas?” until I came to a horrifying conclusion. These hairs weren’t small outposts staking out new territory in a harsh and unforgiving land. These were the last brave soldiers fighting a losing battle in the war to maintain my hairline.
I spent the next four hours drinking and in various awkward poses with a hand mirror to inspect the damage. It appeared as if I was fighting a war on two fronts and, from the best I could determine, the enemy had already scored some major victories.
I’ve known for some time that I would most likely end up bald. My maternal grandfather’s head looked like a hard boiled egg ever since I could remember and I have uncles on both sides of the family in various states of alopecial ( it’s a word, look it up) distress.
However, losing one’s hair in theory is quite different from losing it in reality and I’d be lying if I wasn’t, just a little, depressed by the discovery. Despite my ever growing gut, rapidly failing eyesight and dishpan hands I’m really incredibly vain which is probably due to the fact that I’ve only got a few good features left. What, after all, is the use of a giant penis if one doesn’t have a decent head of hair to catch the ladies’ attention in the first place?
That’s a rhetorical question by the way. I’m married. But in the event my wife isn’t into bald guys feel free to drop me a line.
A few years ago in preparation of becoming a bald man I shaved my head and the results were…disappointing. It turns out that when it’s devoid of hair my head is remarkably unappealing. It looks, in short, like a poorly maintained golf course or a blasting zone somewhere in the Appalachians. To make matters worse my hair is cut in a stylized version of a high and tight which does a great job at disguising the various divots and bumps that dot my head to an alarming degree. Bald Neanderthals on a bad day look better than I do without hair.
I suppose I could go the Rogaine route. I considered it ten years ago but the side effects were enough to warn me off and this is coming from a person who takes most medical warnings as more of a “how to” guide than a cautionary bit of advice. I don’t care what anyone says Robitussin and Xanax were meant to be enjoyed together.
The Upjohn Corp may have toned things down since the last time I looked but I clearly remember reading something on the bottle of Rogaine to the effect of “don’t let women touch your hair for twelve hours after application and if your daughter, spouse or significant other develops facial, foot or chest hair discontinue use immediately and rush to the ER to treat them to before they stab you with a kitchen knife.”
As much as I like my hair I really like not seeing any on my wife’s face or breasts and the thought that Darcy might have to soldier through grade school with a beard for the sake of my vanity is really unthinkable even for me. I suppose I could wear a hat but I look absolutely ridiculous in a fedora and doo rags went out of style a good 25 years ago.
I could get a pair of lifts. Another two inches will give me some much needed height and keep my rapidly balding pate out of the direct line of sight from anyone who isn’t over six feet. Unfortunately I’m not all that coordinated. I have trouble walking around in a regular pair of shoes and an extra two inches in the heel would be enough to unsettle my already delicate sense of balance and, most likely, render Darcy fatherless within a few days.
Fortunately for…well me and after an embarrassing amount of thought I arrived at a solution. Until the fateful day when I show the world the lumpy landscape of my bare head I’ll be confining myself poorly lit venues on the few occasions I leave the home. Under the auspices of energy conservation I will also be instituting a 5 watt bulb policy for every light in every room of our house. There may be some peripheral damage in the way of barked shins, arms, legs, testicles the occasional head injury but I’m sure they’ll see or, perhaps more correctly, come to understand that my decision is really for the greater good.