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In which I tear out my hair

May 30, 2011

No fooling, and no exaggerating, either: my hair is coming out like a farmboy from Idaho who’s just moved to San Francisco, and wasn’t that just the deftest simile ever [holding for applause].

Seriously, though: after three days of mostly sleeping and not showering, I had what amounted to a chihuahua-sized mat of hair on the back of my head. I dragged my lazy ass to the shower, washed the mat as best I could, then spent fifteen minutes and a boatload of No More Tangles combing through the mess. Luckily, I started out with a lot of hair, because when the chihuahua mat was disentangled, I was left with a pile of hair twice the size of my cat’s head. I had to think for a minute about what I could use to describe the hairball. Most of you don’t know my cat, so the description is meaningless. It was, say, bigger than a sea urchin, a regular-sized sea urchin. I don’t know: it was a lot of hair.

If I run my hand through my hair, I end up with a good-sized chunk that I then throw out the window. You’re welcome, birds.

I’m in a weird place. I still have lots of hair, but it is definitely coming out. And I have thought about the prospect of being bald (weird, possibly unpleasant) and the concept of wearing a wig (weird, possibly entertaining), but I had not thought about the in-between stage, the patchy stage. If that’s what it’s called. My friend Linda, who years ago had lost her hair, described to me how she lost everything but a ring of hair, in what she called the “Bozo look.” I think we can all agree that that is one fantastic look, and why bother with a wig? Just dye it red and go traumatize some kids. Anyway, I’m happy to report that her hair grew back.

I’m currently enjoying some peace and quiet. My mom and her husband went out to the gardening shop, and my cat Kong is here on the bed with me, his furry little half-hairball-sized head nestled on his paws. The City Hall carillon is playing a medley of patriotic tunes. I recognize “God Bless America,” and it sounds so pretty, sounding out over the rooftops.

It’s reminding me that yes, Virginia, there are more important things in life, in the world, than thinning hair, and that I have no reason to focus on that one particular aspect of my physique. Or my self, in general. So I lose some hair? It’s not like I ever brush it, anyway. Way worse things could happen, like I could be strapped down and forced to listen to The Best of Robert Klein for hours on end.

I hope you’re having a good Memorial Day, and that you take a moment to remember someone who took a risk or gave his or her life so that I could have the freedom to complain about my hair loss on this glorious medium of the Internet. I personally am choosing to remember my great, great uncle Maurice, pronounced “Morris,” who would not be with us today, owing to extreme age, but who died before his time due to an unfortunate encounter with mustard gas in the Great War. Or World War II. I think it was the first one, though. I don’t know.

Anyhow: God bless America, my home sweet home!

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4 comments

  1. 😦 I am glad, however, you get a reprieve from mom and step dad for a while. ((HUGS))


    • Thank you, miss! The peace and quiet are invaluable.


  2. I am having a tough time commenting on this since I have baby fine hair … which has thinned further from age … and I still have menopause to look forward to … at least yours will grow back! 😀


  3. The hair loss is alarming and worth complaining about. When clumps of my Mom’s hair started to fall out, she just shaved it and beat it to the punch. I know you are not there yet and hopefully wont be.



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