The great hair battle

My overly thick hair has proved resistant to water, wind and a collection of hair products -- so I finally decided to do something about it.

By Bryan Miller

May 27, 2004 | I was having a drink recently with my friend Josh, who, at 34, had decided to shave off what little hair populated the sides of his head and go for the cue-ball look. I couldn't lie and tell him I liked it. To me, a man with a shaved head -- or at least a Caucasian man -- looks like a postoperative patient, or one of the more contumacious tenants of Sing Sing.

"I'm telling you, women love it," he enthused. "My sex life has never been better!"

I will never have the opportunity to test that hypothesis, for I belong to a small minority group that, despite its enviable status in the eyes of many, is not all about luxuriating among margaritas and models. We are men with uncontrollably thick hair -- that is, males who were dispatched into the world with extreme follicular overload, and have retained it against the depredations of time, bad diets, stress and cheap shampoo. As a result, we face a lifetime of struggle attempting to tame hair that is so dense, and so obdurate, that its maintenance eclipses many other vital daily pursuits, like picking up the kids from school.

The age-old fear among bald men that their condition suggests premature aging and attenuated sexual potency is something that we need not contend with. So one might conclude that we're lucky fellows. But below the flocculent surface there is another trying reality.

The ordeal starts first thing in the morning. Because of the extreme density of my salt-and-pepper hair, during the night it molds into the shape of my movements during slumber, taking on many unique and humorous contours.

Frequently, when I look into the bathroom mirror, I am greeted by a puffy-eyed cartoon character who is crowned by a tall, gauzy ziggurat of hair. Rising from a sturdy foundation, it defies gravity by twisting and twirling skyward, thickening ever so slightly at the top to form an observation deck at the peak.

A hot shower topples the structure, but it only buys time. I barely dry my hair with a towel because moisture holds it down. En route to the subway, however, it begins to dry, commencing an aeration process akin to an inflating balloon, usually reaching full-blown cumulosity just as I walk into my office.

Throughout the day I self-consciously run my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to flatten it. And sometimes, before an important meeting or upon arriving at a restaurant, I seek out the nearest water source and liberally irrigate the property. This alleviates the problem for about 15 minutes -- better than nothing.

It is well documented that hair, or lack thereof, is atavistic, commonly linked to one or more ancestors several generations back. It is said that the average human skull has about 100,000 hairs, and that we lose 50 to 80 per day -- mostly on navy blazers and contact lenses. The number of hairs that regenerate varies. For balding people, it's very few. For me, it's like fighting a guerrilla war -- for every individual eliminated, two just like him show up.

Next Page: The line I hear repeatedly: "You'll never go bald!"

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