Our personal image is a funny thing. In this self obsessed culture we have today you find countless examples of personal display leading you to conclude we live in a proto-narcissistic society. Hell, we invented a stick to make it easier to take pictures of us in front of our favorite whatever.

Those without sight wonder what the fuss is all about. Those who lost their sight pine for lost sunsets and soul gazes. The rest of us waste this gift with obsession over our appearance to the point where something as little as losing hair shatters the fabric of the matrix.

Thank goodness there is no spoon.

 

All my life I wanted a beard. My father grew one one in the 80s and all I ever wanted was to have one too. Try and I could throughout my teens none would grow. I finally achieved some semblance of a full beard in the early 90s and I never looked back. I went from goatee to beard freely, basking in the thrill of wind in my whiskers.

September of 2010 I noticed two small gaps forming in my beard. These two perfect ovals appeared as if the hair fairy had simply tapped his magic comb to either side in some reverse knighting ceremony. In fact, they were the first patches of gray hair in my beard from my early 30s. Now as if to say “we gave you the chance to color us,” they abandoned me.

 

 

I don’t normally ascribe to revenge on one’s own body but I did spend many a night in front of a mirror asking it why. Eventually the only choice was to shave down to a thin strip in the center of my chin.

That was nothing compared to what happened next.

 

 

All I know is I had hair on my legs in my 20s. There are photos that prove it, not that it matters to anyone but me. But in 2010 I wore shorts one day to the office and several of my female coworkers exclaimed “you have no hair on your legs!” I looked closely and they were right. I knew it was thinning, but figured like my father it was normal. Dad always blamed his heart medicine, but who knew? I assumed it fell out over the years in drips until one day poof! No more leg hair. Now I knew something more sinister was afoot.

My beard was a thing most prized and hard earned. All my life I wanted a beard. Not unlike a young girl looking for that elusive swelling or a boy spying the first wispy traces of a moustache, I endured for years waiting on my beard. By my 30s it was thick and black with only a few gray hairs. I met my wife with only a moustache but by the time we dated I had the beard. She’s only ever known me with hair on my face, so as it shed I frantically searched my memory for infections or exposures to chemicals.

I took a new job and jumped into the deep end, struggling against expectations and insecurity while my wife prepared for her largest conference. All along I noticed hair collecting atop whatever piece of paper I poured over. Reaching up I could rub my head and watch as strand after strand floated down and settled on the table. My wife who asked me when I planned to see a doctor. I did what any clever human does instead; I asked Google.

The answer Google gave was unequivicable. The name was alopecia and it came in two flavors: areata and totalis. By mid January there were visible thin areas in my hair.

 

My son needed a haircut so I took him to see our normal stylist. As he got his cut I spoke with another girl. The young lady knew someone who had it. Firing up her shaver she ran it three times up the back of my neck, maybe four, but stopped.

“You’re right,” she said. “You’re going to want to shave this. You can’t have it like this.”

Mirror in hand I shifted my focus to the larger mirror behind me. Like a golf course from above my head was a disaster. I knew she was right and nodded and for the next ten minutes my son watched in mild fascination as she shaved the last of my original head of hair. Skin which had slumbered in relative darkness its whole life shuddered as it  was suddenly thrust into the light. Moles I never knew I possessed sprung into sight while at home my wife merely stared in disbelief. It’s shocking to say the least.

My new head looked like a mottled egg.

 

 

 

And it was COLD! I needed some cover.

With the help of REI’s selection of great outdoor hats and accessories I bought a nice felt, water resistant hat that warmed my head and gave off a hint of style. It also gave me a chance to update my spartan avatar created long ago for Yahoo messenger.

 

 

And so my stick figure avatar found itself hairless with a new hat. If you’ve seen me anywhere you’ve seen this avatar on the right. And that’s an iPhone, not a beer.

 

Over the next four years this happened three times. How do I feel about it? Frustrated more than anything. The maintenance of keeping it shaved when it’s patchy gets old. I have moles on my head which slow me down while doing the job. Didn’t miss those when I didn’t know about them. But I hated looking like a chicken, hairless and awaiting batter. And before you say, “But Jeff, everyone loves chicken” I know. But remember, you grow up your whole life looking at one face. It changes slowly over time, easing you into the older one at a pace you generally never notice. Not until it’s too late at least.

 

But this stuff happens rapidly when it does. Having regrown my hair twice it’s always a mixed bag. The first time it regrew pretty evenly and stayed a solid year. I enjoyed parties and popularity again.

The second regrowth was less forgiving.

 

 

Some areas covered nicely, but not one side of my head. This one large spot persisted to the point where I just tried to ignore it and grow the hair over it.

By this time I’d accepted the vagaries of my condition, allowing me to care less about stares. But hope always springs and I got excited as I noticed new hair on my arms. My beard was almost completely back and my head was almost in need of a haircut. I felt confident and assured I was about to have a regrowth event that might include my appendages. And the unthinkable happened.

 

Every hair fell out instead. But this time was different; the hair fell out and stopped growing. All of it. You can feel the tiny hairs there, waiting. But it doesn’t grow at all. I haven’t had to shave, which is pretty sweet. And I have my goatee back! And in this event I discovered something else.

I’m fine with it now. After almost 5 years to the day since the beard began its exodus I’m comfortable with myself, secure in my mottled egg, and able to smile and whatever life throws at me. It took me a long time on a crooked road to find myself, but there I was. Right where I left me.