Marking Time

My face, my hair, my scalp, look up at me from this snapshot on my Northeastern University alumni ID, pre-pandemic, a younger version of myself. Not long ago, just the mid-2010s, and yet I'm reminded that this more hirsute, less age-lined version of me is gone, fleeting, like the freedom I felt before Covid, before I reached my sixties.

Now I mark time by noticing the changes in my body: hearing loss — almost total deafness in my left ear, which popped up suddenly before I turned 50; two bouts of melanoma and the surgical scars that mark my left arm; the morphing of my body and the power of gravity as lean muscle turns to, if not fat, then something else.

I tend to zero in on whatever new flaw shows up, whatever I notice in the unflattering light of my bathroom mirror. Lately, I've been laser-focused on my hair, and the lack thereof. My yarmulke-sized bald spot is advancing, claiming new terrain on a weekly basis. Soon it will resemble a crop circle, an unnatural event, for which I cannot blame aliens — just Mother Nature and Father Time.

As much as I fight this — hair loss and aging in general — I know it's a natural process, one which will not get better over time, but will lead inevitably toward less hair and more scalp, the uncovering of my egg-shaped cranium. Many men, including several of my friends, look good bald, their round heads an expression of their masculinity. But, with a long, narrow, angular face, I am not one of those men; this is a club I don't want to join.

Back in the 1970s and '80s, I had too much of a good thing; my hair was wavy, wild, and poufy. It seemed to have a mind of its own, willful and hard to control. But around the time I turned 40, a small bald spot appeared like an unwanted dinner guest, a precursor of the male pattern baldness that runs in my family. Determined to hold onto what I'd got, I started taking Propecia and reached an uneasy standoff with my hair loss. Though my hairline receded, my bald spot was stable, and amenable to my stylist's wizardry.

Fast forward five years, or ten, and as I added several other medications to my daily routine for cholesterol, blood pressure, and sleep, taking a drug for cosmetic purposes felt a bit over the top — the height of vanity.

But here's the thing: I'm a single, gay, sixty-something man, who is unwilling and maybe unable to say goodbye to his formerly-reliable hair. Now, as my head covering beats a retreat, as the crop circle and hairline threaten to join forces, I may be facing the inevitable, a buzz cut. But given my narrow face, I'm afraid I'd look like a recent escapee from the nearest gulag, (a realistic scenario in the upcoming Trump-era redux.)

Today, as I study my face in the harsh light of my bathroom mirror, I mess with the frizzy, thinning, mane that almost covers my head, doing my best version of a combover. I recently got a roll-on "DHT blocker" designed to stimulate hair growth. Yet, ultimately, I know I'm fighting a losing battle, one of many on the downhill slide of late middle age and whatever comes next.

Judah Leblang is a writer, teacher, and storyteller in Boston, and the author of the memoir, Echoes of Jerry. Find out more at judahleblang.com