I Miss My Hair
Facing baldness like a man... Yeah, right.
😜 I've had to admit that I'm going bald. For a while, I tried lying to myself. "Paul, you have more hair than ever." Yeah, right, like I'm going to believe someone with a bald head.
I tried all of the old standbys to keep the hair from going -- scalp massage, hair tonic, ritual sacrifice, prayers to Saint Kuelbahl, the patron saint of balding men. I've increased my protein intake, decreased my hair combing, lather rinsed and repeated repeatedly.
Nothing works. I'm still getting more and more face every day. It's getting to the point that I'm afraid to drive down Bald Hill Road.
There's this magical stuff called Rogaine. Scientists worried about their own hair loss found that 20% of men who use it regrow hair. They also found that 15% of the men who were taking a placebo regrew hair. That means that 75% of re-growing hair turned out to be believing that something will regrow hair. Yes, you are three times more likely to regrow your hair out of faith than with Rogaine.
Faith healing. I don't have to spend big money on a lifetime supply of Rogaine, I can go to a tent revival service and have my faith restore my hair.
Rogaine isn't supposed to work on me. It works on the circular bald spot that is on the crown of the head. They call that "male pattern baldness". I don't have a bald spot. Not yet.
You'd think that something, anything, in my life could work normally, but nnnnooooooo, I get to go bald from the front to the back, exactly the kind of baldness that the Rogaine package describes as "tough tootie pattern baldness".
That receding hairline just keeps creeping back like the glaciers at the end of the last ice age, or more like how the loose end of a plastic bread bag pulls back from a hot toaster.
Not that I worry about it. At least, I try not to worry about the day I find more hair in the shower drain than on my head. I try not to worry that I'll soon be reduced to wearing a baseball cap indoors and brushing my hair with a towel.
After all, it happened to my older brothers, and they've come to grips with being bald and hairless and bald and wearing baseball caps to bed, and being bald.
I don't worry. I bought a progressive relaxation tape. No, it's not some kind of new-fangled relaxation that says that the old, non-progressive way was... uh... regressive.
It's where a calm voice tells me to relax my toenails, then my big toe, then my next toe, eventually working its way up my body to my neck and face. I get more and more relaxed, right up until the voice says "Now relax your hair follicles and tell them to let loose. Relax their tight grip on your hair."
For some reason I tense up at the thought of my treasonous hair follicles laying down on the job and releasing those last remaining hairs.
Maybe I'll get a fake-looking, poorly fitting toupee like Buddy Cianci.
I'm too realistic to believe that a comb-over fools anyone. I had one college professor who coiled one long strand of hair from the back of his head around and around his bald top. There was a guy down the street when I was a kid who combed his eyebrows over his head.
No, I guess in another few hair-cuttings, I'll end up going for the Bruce Willis look -- "Give me a buzz, Floyd, I'm tired of watching it go. Yippie yii-oo kaii yaaa!"
Then I'll stare at myself in the mirror and sigh, thinking of the days that hair cuts were a waste of money, not because the hair wasn't long enough to cut, but because no one in the commune cared how long your hair got.
Sadly, I didn't have long hair in those days. Army brats like me lived with crew cuts when the rest of the world was enjoying free sex, drugs, long hair, rock and roll, and long hair. I hit my hairy peak in the 70's, in the days of blow-dried hair and disco. I never really had long hair like the hippies of the 60's.
And now, I guess, I never will.
Peace.
Did I make you laugh? Want more? Here are a few more of my humor columns on Vocal
Fortune Favors the Bold Why Clickbait is Wonderful Language Confusion Waddling to Work What, Me Volunteer? I'm an Urban Legend Life Under the Glide Path I Miss My Hair I'm a Kennedy Cousin Super-Secret Diet Secrets My Dogs Love me. Honest! Yucky Foods! Trapped in K-Mart Geminis are Skeptics
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Paul Pence
A true renaissance man in the traditional sense of the term, Paul leads a life too full to summarize in a bio. Arts, sciences, philosophy, politics, humor, history, languages... just about everything catches his attention.
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins2 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Your use of humour needs to be commended. I love how you bring such real stories packed in some dose of humour. Welldone