I'm Losing My Hair

"Darling," she whispered as she caressed me, "you're losing your hair."

It was then I knew the secret was out. The whole world would soon know my once full crop of black hair would shortly become a shiny bald pate. And it revolted me.

From that night on I became more and more aware of the less and less I had to comb. I parted my hair differently and wore at hat more often. I found myself staring at more fortunate young men who had such wonderful trouble keeping their hair in place.

I also discovered the most frustrating aspect of losing one's hair is going to the barber. The embarrassment of going to clip something that isn't there is less annoying than the hair-saving advice bald-headed barbers throw in free.

As I sat down in the chair, one of these scissors jockeys asked:

"Shall I clip it short?"

"Yes," I answered sarcastically. "Give me a trim."

He didn't get my weak attempt at humor, but after trimming and clipping for a while he made a startling revelation:

"It's getting kinda thin on top. You ought to do something about it."

"What would you suggest?"

"Tincture of green soap; works every time."

I tipped him handsomely and bought a bottle of tincture of green soap on my way home.

That night, I prepared to save my hair. With the meticulousness of a surgeon, I laid out my utensils: brush, comb, towel and a bottle of the Great Green Hope. Never one to go in for half-way measures, I used the soap liberally. After thoroughly rinsing and drying my hair, I applied the comb ... It was ghastly; twice the usual amount of hair lay on the floor.

I did the best I could to pat the remains in place. On my way out to dinner, I tossed the green soap into the garbage pail.

That weekend I paid a brief visit to the family homestead. My mother, who had barely noticed the change in her not-so-fair-haired boy during the past few months, was startled when she saw me.

"Jackie, what did you do with your hair? It's getting so thin! ... Oh, my goodness, you'd better get married quick."

"Get married!" I shouted, "What in the world has that got to do with my hair?"

My mother was a little ashamed for having been so blunt. She tried to cover up.

"Well, it really doesn't mean much, but you know how a girl is ... she likes a fellow to be handsome and ... hair is important. Of course, after you're married it doesn't make any difference."

"Mother, I will not succumb to the nuptial net of any woman just because I'm losing my hair, If she wants to marry a hairy ape, let her go to the zoo."

That was the last I heard of such talk from The Old Folks At Home. Nevertheless, the problem still existed and although my mother didn't mention hair to me. I still faced the barbers periodically. They weren't reticient to discuss so sensitive a topic. Of course, I never returned to the green soap enthusiast. But there were others – many, many others.

I changed barbers often, more out of curiosity about advice than dislike of service. I was convinced early in my hair-losing days of the social uselessness of barber advice on falling hair. But still they advise until the last strand is gone. Then they turn to skin care advice.

I'll never forget one "expert" who advised a kerosene treatment (and one sucker who actually tried it). The barber argued:

"Look, you're losing your hair, right?"

"Right."

"That means there's a germ working up there some place, right?"

"Right."

"Take it from me, I had the same trouble when I was your age. I took a little kerosene, mixed it with water and I never had any trouble with falling hair again. Germs can't live in kerosene. Right?"

I thought the idea was ridiculous and I told him so.

"Look, I'm only giving you some advice, buddy. After all, I don't sell kerosene here; I don't make any money if you buy it."(continued on page 65)

Losing My Hair(continued from page 61)

I had to admit his approach was sincere. There was no kerosene in his shop, and I began to wonder if there was some validity to his treatment. One fateful night, after several weeks of mental conflict, I gathered enough courage to carry out "Operation Kerosene."

Needless to say, dear reader, kerosene is not the answer. As a fuel or chemical for cleaning clothes, it's tops. But as for saving curly locks, it gets you nothing but red splotches of irritated scalp and barbed-wire hair. Furthermore, I was afraid to smoke a cigarette; I had fears of bursting into flames at any moment.

I could see easily that my hope did not rest with the local barbers. I was determined to find a remedy from more reliable sources. I went to science.

I found that literature was plentiful on how to save hair. Most of it was interesting but, to say the least, impractical.

For example, Dr. R. E. G. Armattoe of the Lomeshie Research Center in Londonderry, Ireland, made a study of baldheaded men in relation to ethnic groups and geographic locations. After years of meticulous scalp probing, he found more young Swedes were bald than Frenchmen.

I was very happy for the young men of France, but I live in New York. I suppose if I cared enough for my hair I could sail for France and live a happy, hairful life. But that didn't appeal to me, especially since my French was as spotty as my scalp.

However, Dr. Armattoe espoused another theory which may present the selfconscious hair-losing male with a point for rationalization. For some undeter- (concluded on next page) mined reason, he said, the most intellectual men are likely to become bald.

He cited, for example, a meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, held at Dundee, Scotland, several years ago, where 77 percent of Britian's outstanding scientists who attended were bald.

Well, I gloated to myself, one could take solace and almost pride in such an implication. No doubt this would have been satisfying were I looking for peace of mind. But I was looking for hair.

So I continued my search for another "scientific" explanation and found one belonging to Dr. Mr. Warton Young of Howard University. He claimed that tension – wearing a tight hat, for example – leads to baldness by cutting circulation. He also said a study of atombomb victims in Japan revealed that exposure to atomic rays will lead to baldness.

Clearly, Dr. Young's theories could not apply to me. I wore a hat rarely and then only after I began losing my hair. As for the atom bomb, the closest I've ever been to one was during a telecast of an experimental explosion at Yucca Flats. This was hardly convincing evidence.

Another unusual explanation for baldness came from Cincinnati. Originator is Dr. Andre Alexis Cueto who maintained that baldness was caused by faulty capillary circulation. He suggested a hood be placed over the head and by the creation of alternate vaccums and pressures within the hood, the capillary action would quicken. Just plug the gadget into the wall and falling hair would be gone forever.

Somehow, the method seemed dubious to me and I ruled it out. A more practical solution, however, was given by Norman Hillier of New York City. In a National Beauty Congress in Seattle some years ago, he recommended that persons with thinning hair stand on their heads, for "standing on your head brings blood to the scalp." Blood in the scalp is good for growing hair, he said.

It may sound unreasonable, but anyone who would use kerosene would risk standing on his head for a while. So I stood on my head. My friends caught me doing this one afternoon and that ended my upside down days. I reasoned that a reputation as a head-stander was more damaging socially than being bald.

Scientific explanations notwithstanding, it was time for another haircut. It was difficult, but I braved it.

The barber tucked me in and began trimming.

"You know," he said gayly, "you're losing your hair."

"Where?" I shouted with false surprise.

"Right here on top. The best way to stop it is to take two fingers and massage three times a day, Circulation, you know, is the best thing."

"Yeah," I said dryly, "trim my mustache."

(The mustache was cultivated recently to counterpart nature's dirty trick. I may have no control over falling hair, but I'm the master of my upper lip.)

For some unknown reason, I became very strong-willed after that haircut. I not only resisted the two-finger rub, but the suggested beer-wash, lemon juice rinse, and hot towel treatments as well. I cast aside all talk that worry, serving in combat during the war or using too much water on hair would lead to baldness. Furthermore, I discovered that as far back as 1916, a woman named Dorothy Osborn gave valid evidence that baldness is inherited.

Re-examining my family tree, I discovered both my grandfathers were bald, my mother's brothers are bald, and my father and his brother are bald. I'll never know whatever possessed me to think I would have a lush crop of hair with a background like that.

I was very grateful to Dorothy Osborn and the Ohio State Department of Zology and Etomology for which she made the study. It relieved old tensions and gave me a sense of fatalism in learning that my hair was no longer my problem; it belonged to the fixed laws of science. I was merely the victim of a hairless family.

The moral of my story is that even if you rinse with kerosene or stand on your head, you can't stop your hair from waving goodbye. All you can do is give your barber a dirty look and thrown away your comb.