There is no witty way to start today's topic.
Not when it's a hairy situation for me.
Oh, there we go.
The ironies of life.
Two weeks ago, while having dinner at my sex bunny friend Stanley's place, I discovered that my hair is thinning.
It all started when Carl the dense one said I ought to dye my hair because it looked as though a clumsy baker had tripped and spilled a tray of flour on parts of my hair.
"It's called the salt and pepper look," I replied proudly, saying that the colour adds years of wisdom to my image.
"You know that salt and pepper is not good for health right," replied Carl, the spokesperson of any gym who wants to hire him.
"Just show me how bad it is," I said, passing my phone to Carl so he could do a 360-drone shot of my crowning glory.
And for the first time in years, I'm seeing the full 360 picture of the effects of ageing.
Not only does my image look like I had years of wisdom added on to it, it's evident that years of youth had also been subtracted from my head.
"Jesus," I said, barely whispering. "My hair is so thin I can see my scalp."
For the next few days, every time I passed by a mirror at home, Id pause and pose in various angles as if that mere act can promote hair growth.
It didn't.
What it did though, was promote paranoia, fear, dread.
"I'm balding," I said to J.
My partner of 20 years looked at me, reached out for my hand and gave me a firm handshake.
Then he went back to reading his novel.
Though a year older, at age 43, J still looks trim, fit and youthful.
His bio age, according to some machine he previously used, is supposed to be 18.
So yes, he has a head full of hair though these days, he shaves it really short for easy maintenance.
"You look fine lah," J finally said to me when he caught me staring into my phone camera to check for bald spots.
"We all age, and we all die,"he says.
I love that about J.
He's factual, fuss-free, and blocks off unnecessary drama in life.
I love him.
But.
I love me more.
Despite J shedding light into my shedding situation and his worldly reassurances that I will age and I will die, I am not feeling better.
How am I supposed to feel better, I ask you.
After having had lush, voluminous hair for the first 42 years of my life, I am allowed to mourn.
Over the next few days, I decided to do something about it.
From medicines and supplements to hair products and serums and hair care treatment centres, I researched them all.
Medicines such as propecia may cause erectile dysfunction.
Stanley my sex bunny friend's jaw dropped and shook his head at me, as if warning me not to jump off a building.
Hair treatment centres are useless, according to Stanley and my one-time hairdresser whose wife worked in one such famous local hair treatment centre.
I remember the hairdresser's exact words were I tell my wife that she will go to hell for giving people false hopes.
After days of careful academic research, I settled on a new combo.
A plant-based supplement recommended by a friend who knows her beauty stuff.
It costs about $100 a month and by popping two pills a day, you'll turn into Rapunzel in six months, or so they claim.
I've also changed my shampoo to one that is supposedly able to wash off every bit of grim from your scalp.
And most importantly, the final element in that combo: Accepting that I will age and I will die.
But for now, I won't die without trying.
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