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Youre So Vain, You Probably Think This Hair Is About You

couple of months ago, I stepped out of the shower, did my normal pecs and gluts posing and suddenly froze in disbelief. What the shit is this, I thought? Who is this dude who standeth before me with what can only be described as frontal-lobe-hair-thinning!? I angled my head left and right; I tussled, combed and spread my hair between my fingers. Ho-lee hell. I could see bright patches of neon white scalp glaring back at me.  My hair felt weaker, delicate and vulnerable. Was this really happening?  There were strands of wet hair in my hand ‑ a few rogue ringlets sticking to my torso and upper arms.
A large pit of fiery depression filled my throat. Was this really happening? I had watched on the sidelines, as my good friends one-by-one lost their hair. Some in their early 20's, some in their late 20's. Some ever so slowly and hard to tell without the help of a photo from seven years prior in front of your face. "Wow, Dan's hair used to really be thick. I forgot about that."
But here I was 33, and finally being punched in the gut by the angel of baldness.
Like any centered and rational man, I took a step back and thought about it logically. Okay, I wasn't loosing my liver function, my T Cell count or functional use of my balls. This didn't have to be a referendum on my identity, functionality or even attractiveness. It was merely a well-earned mark of living on this earth a few more sun cycles than, say... 14 year old boys, or 25 year old rock stars. Still, who was I kidding? My abundant locks have always been my trademark, a symbol of my virility and dynamic persona. I am a Samson! I want to be Richard Gere, Bill Clinton, Cher! Let my friends be Ben Kingsley, goddamn it.
I did what any shallow man would: sent a frantic email to my internist begging him for an urgent prescription of Propecia ©. Dr. K had already reminded me in the past that his email was not to be used for every day matters; he'd already admonished me a few months back for abusing the "email privilege" when I hammered him with inane questions about my periodic eyelid twitching. But this was an emergency.
So, after ostensibly "drunk dialing" my Internist at 1am, I went back to pace in front of the bathroom mirror.
When my wife, who'd been out with her full-haired friends, walked through the door I immediately jumped her with my distress. I dragged her into the bathroom and explained my situation.
She looked at me, taking in my despair and helplessness. She ran her hands through what was left of my hair and smiled.
"Babe," she said, "You're such an idiot. You cut your own hair the other night remember? I told you not to. You can't just cut your own hair, people are trained to do that."
"Yeah? Oh, yeah..." I responded.
"You're not balding. You screwed up your hair and balded yourself; it will grow back."
"So, I'm not balding?" I asked like a six year old wondering if his baby teeth will grow back.
"No, and even if you were who cares. It's not that big of a deal. You look good either way."
I went back to the mirror, one last time. I planted my face six inches from it and poked around in my hair. I smiled "You-o-o-o-o," I said to myself, "come here and gimme a kiss you big lug. You really scared me, dummy." 
It's been 6 months since that night. My bald scare, gone, or at least temporarily abated. It's freed me up. Freed me to worry about early onset arthritis, herniated discs and low sperm count. That's the good news.
The bad news? I need to find a new Doctor...

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