Carol’s Column

Sometimes, the bald truth hurts more than anything

I READ the other day that Herman Greenbaum had a hair transplant and from a paltry thin thatch of hair that barely sheltered his pate from the sun within three months he developed a luxurious crop of crisp curls.

I thought of Herman Greenbaum this morning as I watched my beloved brush his hair out of his still-closed eyes and I noticed his forehead had grown a few centimetres.

On Mona Lisa a wide forehead looks good.

On my husband it looked empty.

Wow! It's quite a shock, going to bed one night and then waking up next morning to discover you're married to a potential egg.

In fact they say baldness is hereditary, which is a terrible thought.

I reflected that at this rate our dearest eldest son would be bald by the time he reached matric.

Baldness is like a flat chest — it's a subject that has to be treated with great tact and diplomacy. I kissed him on the nose — the only awake part of him.

"Darling, you're going bald," I said.

His eyes opened wide.

"What?" he answered, "whaddyasay?"

I broke the news gently.

"Your hair is falling out. If you don't do something you'll look like a doorknob by Christmas. And who wants to be married to a doorknob?"

He opened his eyes again.

"Right now that's an attractive prospect," he said.

"Do you know that the average head loses 347 hairs every single day of its life to make way for the new hairs that are pushing their way up through the scalp.

"Furthermore," he continued, "yesterday I happened to count my hair loss and I specifically noticed I'd only lost 213 hairs. Now that is not even two-thirds of the minimum daily hair loss allowed."

Dazzled by such scientific data at such an early hour, I fell asleep.

At breakfast, however, I couldn't help noticing that not only was his forehead wider but there was a patch the size of a R1 coin near the crown.

When he chewed the movement caused his scalp to shine in the sunlight filtering through the window.

"I read an amazing story last week about Herman Greenbaum."

He chewed his toast with an expectant look on his face.

"Herman Greenbaum?"

"Yes, Herman Greenbaum. He had a hair transplant a few months ago and today he has a new head of hair thick enough to use as a shaggy carpet. Amazing, isn't it?"

"So what," replied my spouse. "What does Herman Greenbaum or his hair have to do with me?"

A good wife is one that knows when she has scored a point. She changes the subject immediately.

"Pass the butter," I said diplomatically.

"Who is Herman Greenbaum?" he persisted.

"OK. If you insist — I'll tell you, but I don't want to bore you."

I told him about Herman, his hair, and the miraculous fact that it only took three months to grow. When I'd finished my recital there was silence.

"But what has Herman Greenbaum's hair got to do with me?" he asked.

I eyed his balding patch. "Nothing."

I tried everything. A vibrator — the salesman assured me it would get his hair follicles buzzing in no time. "Active follicles mean plenty of action," he cooed.

My husband was thrilled with the vibrator. He used it on his feet. A jar of "Grow-it" was fed to the dogs as was "Supergel" and "Rub".

I managed to acquire a hairpiece at a sale recently. I placed it strategically next to his toothbrush.

Next day I found the cleaning woman polishing the piano with it.

I discussed it with my friend Marion.

"Perhaps you're being too subtle," she said. "Tell him outright that he's going bald."

"No, it's a sensitive issue. I have to be tactful," I replied.

This morning I found a cutout pin-up of Raquel Welch plus an outsize bra with two foam rubber mounds on the dressing-table.

I think he's trying to tell me something.

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