Yesterday, I wrote about my anxiety over the possibility that my hair was disappearing. Read on to find out the rest of the story.
After considering the slight possibility that my hair was disappearing, my quest began in earnest.
Dermatologist, OB/GYN, vitamins, volume producing hair products, colored sprinkles, men’s 5% minoxidil (screw the warnings — growing another ovary is worth it to me) and sprays — and in return I received an irritated scalp and some sympathy. Lots and lots of sympathy.
I will be 45 for another 2 months, 11 days and 21 minutes. I do not want to be 46.
46 is starting to feel a little like heaven’s waiting room.
It seems that as I age, my bipolar is beginning to play tricks on me with more ups and downs closer together and well, more bouts, period. As if that’s not enough, it appears that I am heading (no pun intended) for a one on one collision with Telly Savales.
I have many women friends who are the same age as I am. But when I see them, rather than seeing their little sweet faces, I only see their hair — blonde, brown, red — natural, colored, highlighted, all different varieties, poking fun at my own upper dermis.
You see, about 6 years ago, my hormones joined forces with my bipolar and began to organize their turn on me. That, coupled with my predisposition, I was dragged, kicking and screaming, into Male Pattern Baldness Land.
Things were pretty much rockin’ along until I was brushing my hair one day (back when it was thick enough to require a brush) when I noticed it somehow seemed thinner.
With seven loose hairs clutched in my hand, and completely panic stricken, I ran to the kitchen and bent down, wedging my head between his morning paper and his own head …“Oh my gosh! Feel this! Feel this! Does it feel thinner to you? Does it? DOES it??”
“No Honey. It feels normal” (this from a man whose hairline was moving backwards so fast I could feel a breeze).
I can’t help but wonder if my “problem” contributed to the demise of our relationship. Some of the final words I heard out of my x-prize were “…well my gosh, Leslie, you all but accused me of being the reason your hair was falling out!” (And your point is….?)
Between sobs, I heard him say in a slow, sad voice, the kind that can come only from a father who feels his daughter’s grief, “You know what you need, Les? You need a dog.”
Just 2 weeks shy of Thanksgiving, one of the few that my parents were flying in to share, my boyfriend and I abruptly ended our long relationship. It had died a long, slow death, so though it was a healthy change, you would have never been able to tell by one look at my swollen eyes and ratty sweats. I have always subscribed to the theory that my bipolar magnifies a situational depression 1,000 times.
The K-9 thought registered somewhere in between the aroma of overly cooked turkey and my complete inability to stomach it. Glasses clinking, heart breaking.
That night, as I lay in bed, I pondered – what would it be like to have a puppy snuggled up against me? And then, I wondered how soon I could make it happen. It would surely be as effective if not more, than therapy and tranquilizers – both of which I had plenty of.
My Break-Up-Dog found me just a few short days later.
There were boxes absolutely everywhere and mounds of clothes took up each square foot on my carpet. Wrestling with a trick roll of packing tape, I slid down the wall and crumpled into my own little pile on the floor. I was moving again and not, I might add, with a lot of grace. I was coming apart. An hour later I was still lying on my side on my bedroom floor wondering if they had 12step groups for bubble wrap popping.
I’m not on the lamb, I’m not Top Gun, and I’m not even in the witness protection program. The best I can figure is that it’s God’s hand gently pushing me along for His reasons. Despite my feisty debates, he just keeps on nudging (sometimes, I feel like He’s shoving) me along. Anyone who says “I like change — Change is good” is lying. Sorry, they’re lying. Change is good in one place, and that place is in hindsight.
A couple of weeks ago, I begrudgingly attended a singles event at a local museum. Depression can often keep me safely tucked away in my apartment, but in the spirit of not wanting to further cultivate my reputation of being a stick in the mud, I went. Besides, visions of fancy steak on a stick h’or dourves and a complimentary coat check danced in my head.
Let me give you some history here. I am 45, I’ve moved 4 times in the past 3 years and as a connoisseur of really long, dead horse relationships, I’ve been out of the dating scene for quite a while. Now that you have a little picture of my wild social life, let’s get back to our story.
The night began innocently enough: servers in crisp black and white, an array of refreshments and jazz resonating from the back of the museum. Mingle. Mingle. Mingle. After relishing in my new found urbane coolness for awhile, my girlfriend and I went off to explore. A short time later, after becoming intimately familiar with Egyptian tombs, we headed back to the party. Apparently, while I was out getting cultured, the crowd multiplied and grew rabid.
I’m pleased to introduce you to our blog, Light, Laughter and Life with Leslie Hull. Leslie works as a Marketing and Training Director in the property management field. She shares her home in southern New England with a somewhat obstinate but adorable dog, Monster.
Leslie hopes that with a blend of humor, compassion and healing, Light, Laughter & Life presents the perspective of a woman who has realized that bi-polar is such an integral part of her foundation, that the castles we build each day could never be achieved without this component that makes us who we are.