TOP OF THE NOGGIN

Okay, I saved the hairiest issue for last. And, no, I’m not speaking of backs and what sprouts from the back of your shirt collar. I urge you to tame that, but I can’t devote an entire post to another gross-out area. I might scare off every reader with the accompanying Google Images. No, I’m writing today about what’s on top of the head—and, yes, what’s not.

I think we can all be too sensitive about this subject. Rogaine thrives on our insecurities and someone swindled a whole lot of men by hawking spray-can cover-ups. Fortunately, the shame over baldness has receded. Where once Yul Brynner was the only celebrity with a shiny noggin, we’ve now got smooth-shaven hunks like Tyrese Gibson, Patrick Stewart, Mr. Clean and my personal drool inducer, Taye Diggs. Baldness is hip. It’s cool. It’s downright studly.

Thank goodness. We no longer have to be subjected to men in toupees (although I find Dr. Oz’s “hair” incredibly distracting). My poor Great Uncle Frank was an impeccably stylish English gentleman, a perennial bachelor—yes, I suspect as much, but that was a different era. He prided himself in always looking dapper, but his hair failed him. While he had generous tufts above the ears and on the back of the head, there was nothing front and center. To cope, he stuck with the comb over, a style perhaps more egregious than the toupee. The poor man would arrive for a summer’s day at our family cottage, bestowing thoughtful gifts to all, reciting witticisms he had no doubt rehearsed on the drive from the city and then sitting on the deck to sip a scotch (or three). Unfortunately, he never conducted a mirror check and his hair stood up like a patchy Einstein imitation, the “hidden” spot naked to all. That’s what happens when you continue to drive a fancy convertible sports car into your eighties.

I love the fact that men in their early twenties choose to shave their heads—and not as an alternative to a pie in the face or kissing a pig after a charitable fundraising goal is met. But for many there remains some sensitivity over losing our hair when it’s completely beyond our control.

Well, maybe it’s just me. I grew up with terribly low self-esteem. I was geeky, gawky and greasy. Acne hit me hard. I attracted no one. But as I coated my face five times a day with Clearasil and Retin-A cream, I held on to the one physical feature that drew praise from my grandmother’s friends. Yes, they loved my hair. And as my face eventually cleared, a few other people noticed my curly locks, too. Best asset, only asset.

Since then—well, maybe for the past year or so—I feel better about my overall appearance, but my hair has always been my fall-back feature. So you can imagine how going bald would send me into a full-on freak-out fit.

At 50, my hair still seems to be fully accounted for. But three weeks ago, I began to panic. One day a week, I teach a class of six- and seven-year-olds. Children that age have no tact. They say and ask whatever is on their minds. Some of the answers I am forced to offer: “dark circles from lack of sleep”, “some people just have bigger noses” and “My knuckles have always been excessively wrinkly. I don’t know why.” It’s all so humbling. Perhaps this is why I considered going as a mummy for Halloween. (I opted for a yellow crayon instead, even if the color far from flattered my pasty complexion.)

But back to that horrid Monday three weeks ago. As the students bounced out of the classroom for recess, one little girl asked me to tie her shoes. I bent down and grabbed the laces and made a double bow. (Shoe tying is a too frequent demand on first grade teachers.) As I stood back up, the girl said, “Wait. You’ve got bubble gum in your hair.”

My face reddened. (It’s all the more noticeable against the backdrop of that naturally pasty complexion.) “No. I don’t have gum in my hair.”

But the girl looked concerned, even worried. “Yes. Yes, you do. It’s bubble gum”—and then her face contorted into a look of absolute disgust—“or something.”

Yes, it was something. And I had to disclose another flaw. “It’s a big pink mole. It’s harmless.”

“Oh,” she said, the look of disgust remaining and at risk of permanently freezing on her face should a sudden gust of wind whoosh through the classroom.

And then she bounced off. On to thinking about chasing the boys, being a puppy dog and/or finding the reddest leaf to take home to Mom. (When they’re not pointing out adults’ flaws, six-year-olds are truly precious.)

I, on the other hand, was shattered. I couldn’t go in the staffroom. This little girl had pointed out something that none of my friends or colleagues had dared to mention. At the top of my head, toward the back, entirely out of my view, my hideous pink mole was fully exposed. And the only way that was possible was if…I had a massive bald spot.

I got through the rest of the work day. I raced home and crawled into bed. But first I hand patted my entire head. Hair seemed to be in all the right places. Then I dared to feel the mole. Yes, it seemed bigger, squishier. Nonetheless, I couldn’t bring myself to hold up a hand mirror and try to position it so that the mole and the dreaded bald spot came into full view.

I wasn’t ready. I didn’t have a coping plan.

For the next two weeks I tried not to think about it. Indeed, at least five times an hour, I tried not to think about it. Alas, just like Lady Macbeth, I was obsessed with a damn’d spot. Fie!

I put off discovering the truth until I could be with an expert who could console me: Kathy, my hairstylist.

“Tell me the truth, Kathy,” I begged as I sat in the spinny therapy chair. With the New Age soundtrack and a cup of dandelion tea, I was in the right frame of mind. (The harpsichord is underappreciated.) “Do I have a bald spot?”

“Not at all.” This is a woman who knows how to earn a generous tip.

“Right here,” I pointed. “Where the mole is.” She’s always nicking that thing with her comb.

“Not at all.”

“Is the mole exposed?”

“Not at all.”

“It doesn’t look like bubble gum?”

“Not at all.” The equivalent of “no comment.” Yes, unlike six-year-olds, adults can be oh so tactful. And, in my case, conveniently gullible. I tipped Kathy well.

I’m taking Kathy’s word for it. I am back to being a functional member of society. Perhaps baldness remains at bay. I’m not going to investigate further until later this week when I see my skin cancer doctor. I’ve got time to devise my coping plan. Something beyond ice cream and a spray can. The specialist, after all, doesn’t work for tips. And maybe, while I’m there, I’ll get that bubble gum removed.

OUT OF LINE,...AT LAST

I remember it clearly. From grade to grade, it was the established routine. The teacher announced the group game for gym class, picked two students to be captains and then instructed the rest of us to line up against a wall.

It always felt like a firing squad proceeding.

One by one, we’d be pardoned from imminent execution. Steven M., Stephen P., Kevin, Cam, Tim G., Jeff, Becky.

When the first girl’s name got called, I’d start to sweat. We were nearing that shifting point, going from optimal draft picks to making the most of The Leftovers. Still, I knew I had plenty more time to lean on the wall. If I’d wanted to say a prayer, I could have mumbled it in English and in Latin. After learning the language with a handy Rosetta Stone kit.

But my prayer was simple. Even without words—in whatever language—the message was clear. Please don’t let me be last. This time, let it be Mary Novakovic. Yes, hail Mary. This was a brutal game of survival of the unfittest. She was my only hope. I never figured out the logic over which of us got the begrudging last nod. Hell, it wasn’t even a nod. When you ended up last, no one even called your name. You just knew which team you were on by default…and by the grumbles of your “teammates.” Really, you were the enemy.

And then, when it was game on, the playbook was simple. Whatever it takes, don’t let him get the ball. Ever.

I should have been happy when my grade nine P.E. teacher introduced an individual sport. No more letting the team down. But wrestling? Really?! That was worse. As we’d practice with a partner on mats spread around the gym, I’d always get the guy who wasn’t quick enough to find someone—anyone!—else. “Don’t you dare touch me, faggot.” He never attempted to whisper, but the teacher never seemed to hear. And then, after an awkward thirty minutes of being repeatedly pinned to the mat, the teacher would call us all to gather around a center mat for impromptu wrestling matches, viewed by all. Watch how fast the wimp surrenders. I was the unwilling participant in a comedy routine. Unbeknownst to me, I was a master at physical comedy, feebly flailing about for all but a few seconds. Snickers all around. If I had even a shred of masculinity in me, I was stripped of it then and there.

When my family moved to Texas at the start of tenth grade, I knew the misery would somehow increase. Football ruled. And I always found the ball too large for my hand. I didn’t like stretching my palm so much. I always felt like the football had a glaring design defect, but no one else seemed to notice. Somehow I stumbled upon the swim team and, though I was clearly among the worst, I never let people down as long as my coach kept me off the relays. The swim team became a place of refuge. It’s what helped me survive high school, at least until my two best friends on the team started a rumor in twelfth grade that I was gay. Mortified, I quit. They’d outed me before I’d figured things out for myself. That’s when I first thought of suicide.

I could go on and on with tortuous stories of how much my lack of athleticism shattered my self-esteem. It didn’t help that I was two years younger than my classmates, but I knew my coordination challenges were about more than age. I’d never catch up.

That’s why it astounds me to think of where I am, only a couple of months shy of fifty. I’m no jock, but I am athletic. Sort of. Now, when I swim up to one hundred minutes nonstop in lap pools, I consistently take the Fast lane. It stuns me that, as I go from city to city during my travels, I belong in the same lane. It’s not just that people in my community are freakishly slow swimmers with an affinity for the dog paddle. I am a swimmer.

I’m also a runner. All summer, as I ran in groups, I always finished first. I’d run the six miles at a comfortable pace, plenty sweaty but never out of breath and never sore (other than the pesky foot blisters that grew so large I named them. Ernie. Howard. Clarence was particularly menacing). I’d finish several minutes ahead of the next runner. Minutes! Ample time to cool off and take in the ocean views before dinner.

I no longer have to give myself pep talks before going to an out of town gym. Wimps have just as much of a right to use the gym. Even greater. You need it. Who cares if you have to share your weights with women. (Say, is that Mary Novakovic?!) I’ve made progress. I am not one of those steroid oddities with puffy muscles who sounds like he’s giving birth as he lets a monstrously weighted barbell crash to the floor. I don’t think I have the right demeanor to be a barbarian anyway. But I do find myself regularly lowering the weight pin when I hop on a machine after another guy. And I don’t gravitate to the low-lit corner of the weight room to complete a set of bicep curls. If I peek in the mirror, I can even see a bicep muscle finally adhering my plea: come out, come out, wherever you are. I fit because I’m fit.

I survived that prolonged humiliating boot camp known as Physical Education. Thankfully, most of us do. What amazes me is I found a way to escape the Wimpy Kid label. Without all those horrid group games and beyond the mocking scrutiny of classmates, I actually transformed my identity. The self-esteem issues have never been fully repaired, but I am athletic. I actually look forward to heading to the gym right after I post this. I won’t flee after ten minutes. Most likely, I’ll extend my workout. Tack on more ab crunches. They seem to finally make a difference.

It’s astonishing. Back in third grade when there was something about Mary and me, I’d have never imagined a day when I craved exercise, when I found it rewarding. I never thought I’d belong. Seems I faced the firing squad hundreds of times and lived to tell about it.

Remarkable, indeed.