Those men and their hairs

Thursday, August 22, 2002
Gloria Masoner

I've never understood the relationship men have with their hair.

I mean as a woman ages, she faces changes as well. She has to put up with wrinkles, gray hair, menopause and the need to tell horrible lies about her age.

Women have to put up with the same daily reminders of the aging process as men. Every day they watch the hair coloring, estrogen and wrinkle cream commercials. Men have to put up with commercials about hair loss.

"Would she feel the same way if you lost your hair?" the faceless announcer asks the good looking young man with a head full of hair.

"Yeah," says the good looking guy with a lot of hair. "But she'd feel it about somebody else."

If he's dumb enough to keep her around, he deserves the devastation of seeing her move out the minute he starts shedding more hair than he grows.

I keep wanting to yell at him ... "RUN!"

I have never had any issues with follically impaired men. I do have a problem with men who try to hide the fact.

Brad doesn't carry his vanity to the extreme that some men do -- but he does hold fast to those last 159 hairs he has on top of his head -- that's only an estimate, I haven't actually counted them.

I am wearing him down. When we first got together, he had about twice as many hairs on top of his head. They were about 12 inches long while the rest of his hair measured no more than two inches. For three years, he wouldn't let me cut those 318 hairs. Finally about two years ago, he allowed me to cut them in half. Just last week, he finally allowed me to take them down to the same height as the rest of his hair.

I've tried several times to convince him that it would be virtually painless to take them down to the scalp. In fact it really wouldn't be hard to pluck them.

"Leave the top of my head alone!" he keeps telling me. "I don't want you touching them." He's very possessive of his hairs.

Even as I read this to him for final approval, he's shaking his head and saying "It ain't gonna happen."

In a generous attempt to make up for my follicle faux pas, I did volunteer to go through the pain of becoming his transplant donor.

"I'd rather be bald than spend the rest of my life as a ditzy blonde," he retorted.

OUCH!

In order to be politically correct, let me point out -- that last comment wasn't directed at blondes in general.

Now who's going through mood swings?

Speaking of mood swings, menopause, gray hair and wrinkles, I have a good friend who's celebrating her 40th birthday on the 24th. At least she was a good friend right up to the time she opened her paper this afternoon.

Actually, announcing her birthday in this manner isn't nearly as cruel as what she did to me on my 40th.

I had called her that morning and told her in strictest confidence that the eye doctor had recommended bifocals. She felt the need to share that deep dark secret with the world when she called Open Line to wish me a happy birthday.

Of course I'm willing to forgive her. She knows too many other secrets for me to risk making her angry.

They have a word for friends like Penny Cooper.

They're called angels.

Be sure to wish her a very happy 40th birthday. She'll be on the job at Culligan tomorrow.

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