JEFF'S LIFE
 by Jeff Stimpson

Losing It

Last night I was watching TV with Jill when I said something stupid. "You know," I said to Jill, "I'm going bald."

She could have responded to this statement, which worms its way eventually into most marriages, by saying one of three things: 1) I know; 2) No, you're not, sweetie...; or 3) It doesn't matter because you're so handsome.

She went for number four: "Let me see."

Jill was off her end of the couch and on me like a falcon. Her face got big and her fingers probed for that chilly spot near my crown. At this point, she could have said one of three things: 1) Oh you are not bald; 2) Just a little, sweetie...; or 3) You call that bald?

She went for number four: Oh my god!

For the next several minutes, Jill didn't say anything, but just sat over there with a tight, crumbly look around her mouth, as if she'd just received terrible dental news. I let a few minutes go by filled with only the chatter of the TV, then said, "My father was bald."

"At what age?" she demanded.

"About my age."

"Did he go completely bald?"

"He didn't live long enough," I said. Ned is almost bald. What's the problem?

"Bald! Stop pulling at it with the comb!"

I don't pull at it with the comb, except when I get those flea-sized snarls on top of my forehead. When did I get so much forehead? I don't know: I'm simply 40. I have kids and crushing responsibilities and I'm simply 40 years old. Some of my hairs are even turning an odd whitish color; I think this has something do to with bioterrorism.

Hair, in fact, has been twirling off my head as long as I can remember. I often run a hand through it when under deadline or late on a hot day, when I marvel at the feel of purely dirty and flat hair. Feels good, in a strange way.

Near as I can tell using two mirrors, I've got myself about a two or three inch wide spot of sudden white, my own little Ground Zero, near the back and slightly to the left. I don't think this is bad for age 40. My older brother has been ribbing me about "a sunroof" for almost 10 years. I just thought the comments were an inescapable segment of his, let's call it charm, and that if my sunroof was getting bigger he would have laid off.

"Your brother isn't bald," Jill suddenly fired. "Your sister isn't bald."

I won't testify to that second claim, but both my sister and my brother have my mother's hair: wiry old backwoods stuff, resistant to recession and cutting tool alike. I have dad's hair: fine, wispy, full for four decades and I say again that that isn't bad.

Our evening turned back to Jill, who said she was catching yet another cold, and always felt rundown. I told her it was the last few years catching up to her and, after all, we weren't getting any younger and this was the boys' fault. They wouldn't be the first kids who caused hair loss or an exhausted mother.

"How bald was your father?"

"Kind of Patrick Stewart bald." Dad was a handsome guy. He lost his hair during World War II, something to do with Pearl Harbor. I had nothing to do with it.

"Oh, you can get away with being bald because you're so handsome," Jill said. "You won't have any trouble getting a second wife."

I knew eventually she'd go for number 3, if she got exhausted enough. I let her comment slide to the floor with the wise maturity that comes with age and baldness. I turned my attention to the TV and settled in with apple pie and ice cream to watch a commercial.

It was for Rogaine.

©2001 Jeff Stimpson

MENSIGHT Jeff Stimpson, 39, has been a working journalist for 15 years. He lives in New York with his wife Jill and sons Alex, 3, and Edwin, four months. He maintains a site of essays, Jeff's Life, at http://www .jeffslife.com