SWAN TRACHE or Hair Apparent by Carol L. Skolnick I take after my father, who was bald as an egg, in many ways, but I never anticipated this: in my early middle age, my hair has thinned dramatically in the front, in a spiral the size and shape of a quarter. At 39, I had three gray hairs; three years later, I had only one. The others fell out. Were it not for societal norms of beauty for women, perhaps I'd be glad. My mangy mane has always been a pain and a burden. Losing it ought not be so traumatic. Not to worry about things like going gray, or having hat hair, should be a pleasure, not a cause for lament, right? The thin spot is forming around another problem area--a cowlick that has always prevented me from wearing bangs. It remains, a little thatch of stiff hay growing slightly to the left of front and center, its unrulyness making it impossible to conceal the sparseness that surrounds it. I enlisted the help of a medical hair-growing potion for a few months, but frustrated by waiting and frightened of chemicals, I ceased treatments. Since then I've tried shampoos, massage, positive thinking, Reiki. Sometimes I think I'm finding fewer hairs in the bathtub drain; other days I see my wet after-shower image in the mirror and my part seems wider; the little paths of fuzz-covered scalp leading from the temples seem pinker. Unfairly, the hair on the rest of my body is on the increase. The ones on my chin have taken on a spiky whiskeriness where there used to be downy, transparent fuzz. I can no longer get away with my youthful habit of rarely shaving my legs. And now, like an old man, I must prune a few protruding nostril hairs as well. I can deal with deforestation, but the thin spot is another thing entirely. "Androgenic baldness," said the dermatologist. "Perimenopause," said the gynecologist. "You're crazy, your hair's just fine," says my hairdresser, angling for a big tip. "I don't know where you get it from; that never happened to me," say unsympathetic family members. "You still look young and beautiful," say well-meaning friends; the liars. Inconveniently, as the body curdles, I'm still single. I don't dare write a truthful personal ad: "SJF, 40's, receding hairline, enlarged pores, a dozen new age spots this week, emergent turkey wattle. Seeks normal, reasonably attractive man with no judgments and strong stomach, for marriage and family." Right. As if. My dermatologist suggests a hair transplant, and I've considered it; but I fear that tell-tale zipper at the back of the head. Also, I'm told you can never have just one transplant operation; they require upkeep, like seeding a lawn. Anyway, I'm not good with surgery. I hate pain. If I have to go under the knife, I want to hold out for something major ... a cosmetic procedure that, to my knowledge, does not yet exist. I call it "Swan Trache." I've always wanted a swanlike neck, like Audrey Hepburn's, or that of Jennifer Love Hewitt, whose casting coup in her recent TV film portrayal of Hepburn was likely due to their cervical similarities. Alas, there is nothing remotely swanlike about me, unless you consider the cygnet's star turn in that Andersen story. Sure, I can affect a breathy British accent and sing Moon River, but I assure you, nobody would hire me to portray Hepburn. At best, they might cast me as a superannuated Ricki Lake. More likely they'd cast Ricki to play me if I had an interesting life story, which thank God I don't. But about the neck; it's hard enough being short and built like a fireplug. When your neck feeds into your shoulders in such a way that your yoga instructor can't tell whether you're leaning your head back or tipping it forward, that's a problem. So I wait for the day--perhaps when I'm 80 or 85--that they perfect an operation that adds an inch or two to the neck. They could take extra bone from my knobby knees and too-pointy elbows; smooth out the dowager's hump and use the tissue as filler; grind it all up and mold a couple of vertebra. There's enough wattle-skin below the chin to accommodate any new length, so I wouldn't need a face-lift. I'd be the sexiest swan-necked senior citizen you ever saw, disregarding the spots, pores, chrome dome, and nasal forest. I can hear the geezer guys at the nursing home now, remarking as I walk by, "Now there's a babe." Of course, they've all gone half-blind. In which case, why do I need any surgical enhancements at all? I can just wait until the dating pool loses its power of vision. Romance in the time of incontinence, when love is truly blind; at last, something to look forward to. © 2002 by Carol L. Skolnick. All rights reserved. Distribution via hyperlink, e-mail, disk, print, broadcast or any other form is prohibited under U.S. copyright law without express permission of the author. Essayist, humorist, and sometime poet Carol L. Skolnick's writings have appeared in magazines and newspapers (including Glamour, The Sun, The English Journal, AKC Gazette, I Love Cats), in anthologies (CHOCOLATE FOR A WOMAN'S DREAMS, Simon & Schuster), and in e-zines (Salon.com, Paraview, MillenniumSHIFT, and elsewhere). At her website, EclecticSpirituality.com, Carol explores various spiritual scenes, practices, teachers and perspectives with a sharp eye and edgy humor. |
ADVENTURES IN HYPOCHONDRIA by Fanny Upton First Amendment be damned: I say ban the books! I'm not talking about The Catcher in the Rye and Tropic of Cancer; I'm talking about home medical guides and their wealth of information on the topic of cancer. Not to mention heart disease, strokes, gastrointestinal conditions, neuromuscular disorders, respiratory ailments... I could go on, but I'm getting a headache. Gee, I wonder if it's a tension headache, a vascular headache, a cluster headache, a migraine -- or a symptom of one of the above-mentioned disorders? Thinking about the possibilities is making me nauseated. OK, I admit it: I'm a borderline hypochondriac; and allowing a hypochondriac access to a home medical guide is like putting a shopaholic in front of a TV perpetually tuned to the Home Shopping Network. Case in point: Several years ago, I had unexplained tingling in my left hand and recurring headaches. According to my interpretation of my home medical guide, I had multiple sclerosis and a brain tumor. According to my doctor, I had carpal tunnel syndrome and stress. I liked his diagnosis better, but could I trust him? Should I keep the books and ban the doctor? While we're on the subject of the dissemination of medical information to lay people, how about those hospital-sponsored seminars? Hypochondria heaven. Another case in point: One year, during a Women's Health Day at UCLA, those of us in attendance were informed that the No. 1 killer of women is heart disease -- and that women are less likely to survive a first heart attack. "You probably came here worrying about breast cancer," said one cardiologist. "But you'll go home worrying about heart disease." I went there already worrying about heart disease -- it runs in the family. I went home worrying about breast cancer, too. Excuse me. It's time for my hourly self-examination. I wasn't always this way. In my carefree youth, I never thought about health concerns, probably because there wasn't much to think about: Childhood illnesses were pretty much limited to chicken pox, measles, mumps, colds and flu. Polio and tuberculosis were under control, and leukemia was not in my vocabulary. Visits to the dentist were scarier than trips to the pediatrician -- I was concerned about the effects of my Hostess cupcake habit on my teeth, not my body. That's not to say I was completely without fear. There was the ever-present, anxiety-producing, life-threatening pressure to get -- and keep -- my hair straight. Let's face it, like most young people, I spent my days trying to avoid square-peg syndrome, not acquired immune deficiency syndrome. Then things changed. I got older -- and the world got wiser. Health awareness (and, thank goodness, curly hair) became popular. New words, concepts and initials crept into our consciousness: cholesterol, HDLs, LDLs, fat intake, hypertension, secondhand smoke, mammograms. Food labels replaced newspapers as the breakfast-table reading material of choice. And new conversational patterns emerged: Too many phone calls from Mom seemed to open with "Guess who had a heart attack?" or "Guess who has cancer?" or "Guess who died?" Then came the books: The American Medical Association Family Medical Guide, Dr. Isadore Rosenfeld's Symptoms and a host of others. Designed to make us aware of our bodies, they have a funny way of making us aware of our mortality. And isn't that what hypochondria is all about -- a fear of mortality? What to do? It's probably wishful thinking to hope for a total ban on home medical guides, so I think I'll just toss mine. I'll watch my health, but not be fanatical about it. I'll keep riding my stationary bicycle and improve my diet; increasing my intake of whole grains and fruits and vegetables couldn't hurt, right? Although, I must admit, too much roughage tends to wreak havoc on my digestive system. But maybe it's not roughage that sends my digestive system into a tailspin; maybe it's colitis... or diverticulitis... or gastroenteritis... or Crohn's disease... or ulcers... or irritable bowel syndrome... or... I could go on, but I'm getting a headache. Gee, I wonder.... Fanny Upton is an internationally recognized writer. She recently witnessed the death of the English language on the World Wide Web and is currently living in some undisclosed location under the Witless Protection Program. |
...I fear that tell-tale zipper at the back of the head. |
According to my interpretation...I had multiple sclerosis and a brain tumor. According to my doctor, I had carpal tunnel syndrome and stress. I liked his diagnosis better, but could I trust him? Should I keep the books and ban the doctor? |
SWAN TRACHE or Hair Apparent by Carol L. Skolnick I take after my father, who was bald as an egg, in many ways, but I never anticipated this: in my early middle age, my hair has thinned dramatically in the front, in a spiral the size and shape of a quarter. At 39, I had three gray hairs; three years later, I had only one. The others fell out. Were it not for societal norms of beauty for women, perhaps I'd be glad. My mangy mane has always been a pain and a burden. Losing it ought not be so traumatic. Not to worry about things like going gray, or having hat hair, should be a pleasure, not a cause for lament, right? The thin spot is forming around another problem area--a cowlick that has always prevented me from wearing bangs. It remains, a little thatch of stiff hay growing slightly to the left of front and center, its unrulyness making it impossible to conceal the sparseness that surrounds it. I enlisted the help of a medical hair-growing potion for a few months, but frustrated by waiting and frightened of chemicals, I ceased treatments. Since then I've tried shampoos, massage, positive thinking, Reiki. Sometimes I think I'm finding fewer hairs in the bathtub drain; other days I see my wet after-shower image in the mirror and my part seems wider; the little paths of fuzz-covered scalp leading from the temples seem pinker. Unfairly, the hair on the rest of my body is on the increase. The ones on my chin have taken on a spiky whiskeriness where there used to be downy, transparent fuzz. I can no longer get away with my youthful habit of rarely shaving my legs. And now, like an old man, I must prune a few protruding nostril hairs as well. I can deal with deforestation, but the thin spot is another thing entirely. "Androgenic baldness," said the dermatologist. "Perimenopause," said the gynecologist. "You're crazy, your hair's just fine," says my hairdresser, angling for a big tip. "I don't know where you get it from; that never happened to me," say unsympathetic family members. "You still look young and beautiful," say well-meaning friends; the liars. Inconveniently, as the body curdles, I'm still single. I don't dare write a truthful personal ad: "SJF, 40's, receding hairline, enlarged pores, a dozen new age spots this week, emergent turkey wattle. Seeks normal, reasonably attractive man with no judgments and strong stomach, for marriage and family." Right. As if. My dermatologist suggests a hair transplant, and I've considered it; but I fear that tell-tale zipper at the back of the head. Also, I'm told you can never have just one transplant operation; they require upkeep, like seeding a lawn. Anyway, I'm not good with surgery. I hate pain. If I have to go under the knife, I want to hold out for something major ... a cosmetic procedure that, to my knowledge, does not yet exist. I call it "Swan Trache." I've always wanted a swanlike neck, like Audrey Hepburn's, or that of Jennifer Love Hewitt, whose casting coup in her recent TV film portrayal of Hepburn was likely due to their cervical similarities. Alas, there is nothing remotely swanlike about me, unless you consider the cygnet's star turn in that Andersen story. Sure, I can affect a breathy British accent and sing Moon River, but I assure you, nobody would hire me to portray Hepburn. At best, they might cast me as a superannuated Ricki Lake. More likely they'd cast Ricki to play me if I had an interesting life story, which thank God I don't. But about the neck; it's hard enough being short and built like a fireplug. When your neck feeds into your shoulders in such a way that your yoga instructor can't tell whether you're leaning your head back or tipping it forward, that's a problem. So I wait for the day--perhaps when I'm 80 or 85--that they perfect an operation that adds an inch or two to the neck. They could take extra bone from my knobby knees and too-pointy elbows; smooth out the dowager's hump and use the tissue as filler; grind it all up and mold a couple of vertebra. There's enough wattle-skin below the chin to accommodate any new length, so I wouldn't need a face-lift. I'd be the sexiest swan-necked senior citizen you ever saw, disregarding the spots, pores, chrome dome, and nasal forest. I can hear the geezer guys at the nursing home now, remarking as I walk by, "Now there's a babe." Of course, they've all gone half-blind. In which case, why do I need any surgical enhancements at all? I can just wait until the dating pool loses its power of vision. Romance in the time of incontinence, when love is truly blind; at last, something to look forward to. © 2002 by Carol L. Skolnick. All rights reserved. Distribution via hyperlink, e-mail, disk, print, broadcast or any other form is prohibited under U.S. copyright law without express permission of the author. Essayist, humorist, and sometime poet Carol L. Skolnick's writings have appeared in magazines and newspapers (including Glamour, The Sun, The English Journal, AKC Gazette, I Love Cats), in anthologies (CHOCOLATE FOR A WOMAN'S DREAMS, Simon & Schuster), and in e-zines (Salon.com, Paraview, MillenniumSHIFT, and elsewhere). At her website, EclecticSpirituality.com, Carol explores various spiritual scenes, practices, teachers and perspectives with a sharp eye and edgy humor. |
