This post will be a bit of a departure from the day-to-day political circus on which I usually comment, but I ran across an article about a team of scientists at the University of Pennsylvania who made a discovery that should be of interest to all of us with hair that is thinning faster than the forest around property purchased by John Edwards.
Research has found that hair follicles on the heads of mice regrew after their skin was scraped.
Pending research on just how severe the head would will need to be, I find this research of great interest.
The hair on my head was once a thick, dare I say luxurious, collection of follically induced wonderment — a miracle brought forth by a shy scalp that didn’t want its presence known, producing a coif that would obey orders and not lose its shape no matter how late the hour, or how many women ran their fingers through it. At least, looking back, that’s what it seemed like. But then again, that was before the labor strike at the follicle factory. Since then, my life has contained more unpleasant surprises than Pamela Anderson’s strep culture.
How did it come to this? It all started subtle enough. I would take a shower and afterwards my wife would think that I was brushing a nervous St. Bernard in the bathtub. Over the succeeding years my scalp has become as sparsely populated as a Chernobyl pool hall. I can now effectively comb my hair with a shrimp fork.
One thing I’m proud of is that I’ve managed to avoid the biggest mistake of people with thinning hair: the combover. At it’s best, a comb over makes your head look like it has several strips of bacon over the top of it, and at it’s worst will catch a stiff breeze and the 2 foot long tuft of hair will trail behind you, making you look like a Cessna flying over the football stadium towing the “Ticket stub gets you a free lap dance at Bouncin Brittney’s” sign.
With all this baldness comes the inevitable self-consciousness. My ego was about as secure as nuclear secrets stored in a sorority girl’s panties during Mardi Gras.
When I’d run in to old friends from high school — both of them — I’d realize that they’re staring at my head and trying to recollect if I was ever voted “Most Likely To Stick His Head Under A Mulching Mower.” But that was usually offset by me staring at their gut, which was lapping over their helpless belt buckle with fleshy waves like high tide on the Galapagos. In other words, the meeting was a draw. Thanks to this, my self-esteem would return in time.
My latest attempts to regain some of the lost hair have all gone down in flames. I’ve tried Rogaine, a product that I still have a fear that I’ll see a report on 20/20 about the secret side effect, “It makes your penis fall off.” I’m not sure that a full head of hair is worth that.
I’ll certainly never get plugs, which gives you the hair of a Chuckie doll interwoven with patches of chickweed. I’ve also ruled out toupees, which have a high level of potential embarrassment attached to them.
There are two reasons why I will never wear a toupee, “Burt” and “Reynolds.” There is no potential upside to wearing a toupee. Sam Donaldson looks like he has a hairy black flounder napping on his cranium, and every time I see William Shatner I can only think that somebody somewhere is missing a toilet seat cover. So, I’ll probably just end up spending the next few years looking in the bathroom mirror, watching my head transform into a Doppler radar dome.
But now there’s hope for balding men. All we need now is a head wound, and for some of us there will be no shortage of volunteers to provide one.
Millions of men may soon have a way to regain that luxurious, thick head of hair they had in their youth. Unfortunately we also might find ourselves drooling uncontrollably, suffering from amnesia, dizzy spells and maybe even voting for Hillary.
On second thought, being bald ain’t so bad.