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….?)
photo credit: gfpeck