According to my mother, I was born with a full head of curly, brown hair.
In one revealing photo, I am weeks old, sprawled out on a blanket on the first couch of my memory. My brother, Jack, age 3 at the time, eyes lit up, big grin on his face, is perched above me on the back of the couch, his small, grubby hands resting on his dangling knees, caked-on mud betraying his latest meet-up with the happy dirt of kidhood.
For all of my life since, for better or worse, my hair and I have been together. Indeed, we’ve gotten to be quite chummy, even without cutesy nicknames.
Not that I have always kept my hair neat and tidy. Got so messy at times that dad, instead of telling me to fetch a comb, used to call out, “Hey, Medusa Head, go rake your snakes!”
Good times, good times.
When my big brother Jim began losing his hair at age 17, he looked for remedies, and an explanation. Of remedies, there were none at the time, but research into the cause provided this advice: “Young man, to glimpse the future of your own head, look to your mother’s brothers instead.” He did … and there beheld my Uncle Bruce’s shiny scalp. Uncle and his hair had begun the sad breakup when he was in his 20s. Jim was not encouraged.
My dad went to his rest almost fully-follicled, and with a full beard. My brothers, Matt and Jack, still have their hair. I thought I had every right to expect the same.
Then came cancer. In my case, the chemotherapy that followed finally did what nature could not. Treatment after treatment saw my hair thinning out of control, approaching critical mess, giving me the look of a mad scientist without the genius that typically excuses the type.
I feared the day when passersby on the streets would start in with, “Hey, get a look at Uncle Fester there!” or “What’s cookin’, Kojak?!”
Then came an odd dream about a real incident. In it, I heard once again dad’s long ago cry of agony from our rec room. I hurried thither to find out what had happened. Turned out, dad had been about to seal the deal on his first ever win over Jack in a game of pool. But on the cusp, the cusp, dad said, of triumph, a bit of ceiling popcorn dropped directly in front of the cue ball, deflecting the shot. No win for pop. The suffering I witnessed that day was pert-near unbearable.
And then the dream added this bit: somebody threatening to thwack my head with a generously-chalked cue stick. Yuk, yuk. I knew at that moment that utter baldness would not do, not yet. So, a week ago, I set my wife, Ann, free on my cranium.
The result is a ‘do that’s just a hair or two short of bald. But rest assured, my head and that cue ball will soon be indistinguishable. And people tell me it doesn’t look half bad. My sister said something to the effect that at least I don’t have a weird, freaky head, which, de-follicled, would make me look like a weird, freaky dude. OK, Diane, I’m paraphrasing.
Still, a milestone. One more change — in addition to memory loss, uncertain gait, dizziness, nausea — I’ve had to grow used to. But, as with life in general, you learn to roll with the punches. You’d better learn. Change is baked in.
Robert Whale can be reached at robert.whale@auburn-reporter.com.
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