So far, I have had no need for the faux follicle, the hoax hairpiece, the rug, the king of all hideous male lack of taste and vanity: the toupee. As I approach my 49th year, I still (thank you God) have a full head of hair.
There were some truly scary months last summer when, inexplicably, my hair was doing a mass exodus. Those sons-a-bitches were jumping off like rats off a sinking ship. Every time I combed my hair, there were at least 20 to 30 hairs (Yes, I counted them. I am vain.) lying there like dead soldiers in the bathroom sink. My spirit sank into despair and rose into fear faster than a rollercoaster on meth.
Panic. Horror. Dread. These are not strong enough terms to describe my feelings.
I called dear Dr. Milroy and whined to him like I was at the confessional. Milroy, who actually calls his patients back after hours at their homes, told me the major causes of sudden hair loss. None of them fit except stress.
Yes, stress had to be the culprit.
He prescribed some meds and, gasp, Rogaine. Feeling like an old turd given a life without parole sentence, off I went to Drugged Emporium for the chalice of eternal hair follicle regrowth.
After feeling like I was asking what aisle the crack cocaine was located, I turned, but looked back to see the pharmacist smiling and talking to an assistant. Whatever she said caused a smile and the two of them seemed like two smug hyenas; having a laugh at the desperate looking dude realizing his glory days were soon to be replaced by bald, bald, bald. Call me freakin' baldy now.
With the meds and some time, the mysterious hair loss suddenly quit. Thank all Saints, including St. Toupee, the patron Saint of thinning hair.
Today, I was up early (Well...early for me.) and got my hair cut. My locks were totally chaotic and I sorely needed the old head lawn mowed.
Later, I was talking to a colleague and I keep noticing her moving her eyes up to my hair. I didn't think a thing about it until it came time for my nine year old student's lesson. This little guy is full of vim, vigor and devilishness like any little boy that age.
Without any exchange of pleasantries he asks:
"What happened to your wig?"
"The wig on your head."
It dawns and the light goes on.
"You think I wear a toupee???"
"I don't wear fake hair!!!"
To that, he promptly marches over only to pull at my hair, convinced I am a liar. Satisfied, he returns to his seat. Puzzled, I ask:
"You thought I wore a toupee?"
St. Toupee, hear my prayer:
N'er let the sun shine smartly upon my beamin' head
let lavish locks always be there instead
And n'er let any eyes look funny in my way,
if, by Jove, I e'r happen to wear