Argh. Painful and deliciously chastising. What a great storyteller you are, Laurel. Here's mine:
I had recently been told by a “hair loss specialist” that the clock was ticking for my follicles. The sooner I started minoxidil (known by the balding as Rogaine) the better.
Within the week, I’m religious about the daily applications. Beyond that, nothing to do but wait.
Waiting is boring. By that I mean I’m subtly anxious about the results and decide to include my husband in my anxiety by pointing out he would be a perfect candidate for minoxidil: lots of follicles left, though his luscious, curly crown has been thinning, too, and evokes the same sadness I feel when seeing forest clear cutting.
I point out the ease, the affordability of the process. I warn him time is running out for his follicles. I drop hints like, “I miss your thick hair.” When that doesn’t work (because he’s freer and less self-conscious about aging than me) I say flat out I don’t want him going bald.
His expression saddens into one of lost innocence and dawning realities, like I’ve hurt him for the first time in 24 years of marriage. One rotten sentence and my pathetic jerkhood may have broken something in him or between us.
I switch to emergency measures and remind him he once called attention to my inner tube of waist fat and said it was “fine, as long as it didn’t get bigger”.
The marital score-keeping works, nothing’s broken, but I grasp to how easily it might have been. Thank you Universe.
And six months later, I have to say, his hair regrowth looks fabulous.
Lauren, I have always wondered if in an emergency can a plane be totally evacuated within the required three minutes. Whomever drafted that FAA requirement never pull up to a airport gate with a full plane of passengers with the overhead bins full of roll off bags. The man played the death card, I hate it when that happens.
Argh. Painful and deliciously chastising. What a great storyteller you are, Laurel. Here's mine:
I had recently been told by a “hair loss specialist” that the clock was ticking for my follicles. The sooner I started minoxidil (known by the balding as Rogaine) the better.
Within the week, I’m religious about the daily applications. Beyond that, nothing to do but wait.
Waiting is boring. By that I mean I’m subtly anxious about the results and decide to include my husband in my anxiety by pointing out he would be a perfect candidate for minoxidil: lots of follicles left, though his luscious, curly crown has been thinning, too, and evokes the same sadness I feel when seeing forest clear cutting.
I point out the ease, the affordability of the process. I warn him time is running out for his follicles. I drop hints like, “I miss your thick hair.” When that doesn’t work (because he’s freer and less self-conscious about aging than me) I say flat out I don’t want him going bald.
His expression saddens into one of lost innocence and dawning realities, like I’ve hurt him for the first time in 24 years of marriage. One rotten sentence and my pathetic jerkhood may have broken something in him or between us.
I switch to emergency measures and remind him he once called attention to my inner tube of waist fat and said it was “fine, as long as it didn’t get bigger”.
The marital score-keeping works, nothing’s broken, but I grasp to how easily it might have been. Thank you Universe.
And six months later, I have to say, his hair regrowth looks fabulous.
I’m at the airport right now in between flights. And lives. And homes. This has given me something nourishing to think about while I wait. Thank you
Lauren, I have always wondered if in an emergency can a plane be totally evacuated within the required three minutes. Whomever drafted that FAA requirement never pull up to a airport gate with a full plane of passengers with the overhead bins full of roll off bags. The man played the death card, I hate it when that happens.