Hirsute, and Nothing But Hirsute

If this were a celebrity magazine, the headline would read: “Balding Woman Caught on Tape!!!!” Or perhaps, “Hirsute, and Nothing But Hirsute” with a sick, punning irony. Perhaps you’ll see this at your newsstand tomorrow:

Yes, I’m coming out of the closet on this one. My hair, never my crowning glory, is taking revenge on me for all the rotten things I’ve said about it – and done to it – over the past many years. And its revenge is truly terrifying – it’s disappearing on me. I swear the only thing that’s saving me a few sad hairs in front is my almost maniacal application of Rogaine twice a day.

But it’s not enough. I’m at that in-between stage – somewhere between Larry of the Three Stooges and a Conehead.

Well, OK. Maybe I’m not quite that bad.

I know, I know. In the world of bad things happening, I need to get over this minor problem. But as I struggle to get my hair to look anything other than stupid, it doesn’t feel minor. In fact, it sucks.

If you’re a guy, you can shave your head and look way cool. (My son, who inherited his male baldness pattern from my father, does this every spring and looks amazing.) If you’re a bad and brave woman, you could shave your head and boldly have some scary tattoo drawn on your naked scalp. But I’m not a guy. And I’m not bad and brave. I’m just kind of befuddled as to what to do, because this isn’t going to get better with time, methinks.

One the other hand, one day you just might seeing me look like this:

And you’ll know that somewhere in Los Angeles, I’ve made a wig maker very, very happy.


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