One of the billions and billions of great things about losing your hair: the attempted adjustments in style. I try to gel my hair in a wraparound swirl, so that from the top, it looks like an topped inverted whirlpool. When the gel dries I have to break apart the stuck together hairs so people see forest rather than a buncha trees.
The irony is that I am not a guy who ever cared about his hair. This whole gel-manipulation thing is a purely defensive move, like my decision to attain massive corpulence sophomore year so people wouldn't notice that a failed attempt with blue Manic Panic had turned my head orange.
But on with today's cuento de pelo. The storm that was supposed to rip through NYC today never came, but a titanic wind was still ripping across Coney Island when my lady and I arrived: I think I saw Piglet sailing over the Cyclone. The affect on my hair? Negligible, as far as I could tell from the absent patting of my head. Everything felt like it was still moving along the proper vectors, and no one was pointing at me or anything.
I got home and went to the bathroom: Jee-shoot. Gel + wind + thinned saplings = Bill Murray in Kingpin.
It's not like I'm getting some feasible evenly-inroaded Vince Vaughn hair loss. This is a systematic destruction all across the frontal lobe, leaving barely covered random potholes o' shine.
Have I mentioned the carpe diem-deadening power of headglare? Yes? Well lemme reiterate. Hairloss is the yellowing of your world, the enemy of your id, the persistent wince of friends you've not seen in a while.
I caught mono in Africa, but I think I caught the baldy bug in east Africa. Can't wait to see what West Africa offers.
