I'm in a panic. This morning started off just like any other, except that I was washing my hands in the guest bathroom. The guest bathroom is different because there are mirrors both in front of you and behind you.
So there I was, minding my own business, when I glanced at the reflection of my back side. Wait, what the hell is that? Is that . . . baldness?
On the back of my head, I can see skin. Not just any skin—my skin. Why isn't my hair covering it up? Where did my hair go, and why haven't I noticed it before? It must be an optical illusion. The mirror must have a defect. I know that for a fact because when I'm naked, the mirror shows me someone else's body. Now the mirror is lying to me about my hair.
I know lots of guys who are bald. Some partially bald, some completely bald. While I never said anything, I did feel a bit of male superiority because I still had all my hair. Okay, maybe not all the hair I used to have. My hairline has been receding slightly every year. I've always looked at it this way: I'm not losing hairline; I'm gaining more face. My capacity for self-delusion is boundless.
I seem to recall the Lovely Louise saying something a while back about my “bald spot.” I laughed and ignored her because I could look in the mirror and see that she was lying. This morning I saw the evidence with my own eyes. I had come face to face with male pattern baldness. Well, actually, we didn't come face to face because it's on the back of my head and I can't see it straight on. But now that I know it's there, my hand keeps traveling to the back of my head to feel the thinness of my hair.
Shoe polish. Someone told me once that you can cover up a small bald spot with shoe polish. Okay, but I'm colorblind: What if I pick a color that doesn't match my hair? I still think my hair is light brown, but everyone tells me it's a distinguished shade of . . . gray. Lying buggers.
There's something about staring into the mirror and seeing the undeniable evidence of your own mortality staring back at you. So far, I have been able to ignore my slowly expanding girth, my change in hair color, my occasionally aching knees, and my general, all around worsening attitude. Now I was staring at the evidence of my imminent demise, and there could be no more denial. I'm losing my hair!
I haven't seen the bits of hair clogging the shower drain because I don't wear my glasses in the shower. Besides, I blamed the hair on the Lovely Louise, who has so much more of it than I do. I haven't seen my hair stuck in my hairbrush because it's too short to get stuck. I haven't seen it at all, because I can't see the back of my head. Note to self: don't forget the Rogaine the next time I'm at CVS.
I suppose I could start wearing hats. My ex-wife always discouraged that because she said I just didn't look good in hats. Perhaps now that she's gone and can't say anything I could start wearing them again. After careful thought, however, I've decided not to wear them. Not because they're uncomfortable or I don't have any, but because she was right—I'm not a hat guy. (Even now I hate it when she's right!)
Enough pity party. I'm told that bald men are sexy, and they're reputed to be indefatigable lovers. It's probably a lot of BS, but now that I'm heading in that direction, I think I'll go with it.