it kind of appeared out of nowhere. i was shaving with inconsistent regularity, almost every three days. my job insisted on clean shaven appearances which is a difficult requirement for someone like myself who takes hold of any chance to cloak my true self from the world. so i'm shaving much to my chagrin at 6 a.m. on monday mornings before work, the four day stubble long enough to feel the follicles ripping out from their roots which is great for alleviating the two days of binge drinking-i need to wake the fuck up right now sensation that it provides. six months deep into my regimen i notice cascading down the left part of my chin is a complete death of facial hair growth. it was small to begin with, a quarter of an inch wide and tall. i had no interest in making a big deal about it because i figured i had just shaved too close in my shaky, monday morning haze. days became weeks and weeks became a month and this small irritant was still stifled from any growth. the worry team members of my mind formed their solemn tribunal to discuss this blemish upon what had been up until then a formidable pallet of fisherman quality scruff. every time i approached the mirror, my gaze would affix upon this hole. i would tilt my head slightly to the right and draw myself closer. everyday i would examine this patch and as time wore on i conceived that it was, indeed, expanding, swallowing all the tiny hairs in its path.
****I want you all to know this; i'm in touch with my insecurities, some might say even hyper-aware of them. a defect of this nature destroys the cloak that i've been building for years. in facial hair in particular it's an auspicious dynamo to have that which i want to keep most in the dark, exposed for all to see. where are my worries? they're perched on the corner of my chin spreading like wildfire****
I sought the counsel of fellow bearded men with similar experiences in moratoriums of facial sprouts . jordan, my roommate, relayed a similar story saying he went to his dermatologist who promptly injected him on two separate occasions with cortizone, a steroid and hormone that can stimulate hair growth. this was great news. he told me that after two shots and a couple weeks, the follicles reappeared and the wholeness of the beard sprang anew. ahh! delicious hope again!
i went to the mirror, once i knew it was only a matter of time before the drugs would be injected to the black hole in my beard, and poked fun saying loudly to him, "No more fucking with me" and "your counter-revolution is over!"
I made an appointment with a specialist, a dermatologist through the reference section of my general practitioner's website. I got an appointment the next day. I arrived, giddy about the reformation of my sturdy cloak. I had done some light research and found that the medical term for my condition was alopecia arreata, which roughly translated stands for; bald in areas. i sat in his office and noticed that the doctor was a skydiving fanatic. he had pictures of him base-jumping in the andes, jumping out of planes near the grand canyon and free falling off some bridge back east. for some reason it put my mind at ease and i thought, 'this is going to be easy. he'll check out the spot, shoot me up with the shit and schedule a follow up appointment.' i tingled in my chair with excitement.
editorially, let me say just this; fuck Kaiser and their doctors...
"oh, i can see exactly what it is"
"yeah, alopecia-arreata?"
"precisely."
"so can i get some cortizone shot up in there?"
"I don't recommend it."
He doesn't recommend it. Bullshit. He's a lazy fucking Kaiser doctor who doesn't want to exert the effort because I'm only paying 25 bucks for this visit.
"huh, so, is there a treatment you would recommend," i ask blankly.
"its mostly stress related, so I would say try to lower the stress levels if you can and go from there."
this stupid, high flying piece of shit wants me in and out of his office and in a hurry, so he can go onto the next patient and not give him what he needs. this lazy bald fuck wants me to look like an asshole just like him.
"in most cases, the area that is, affected, if you will, is usually subject to new growth after the stress levels have been significantly reduced."
"is there a reason why you can't just give me the cortizone treatment?"
"well there is a chance that it could permanently scar the tissue, leaving it bumpy and swollen for the rest of your life."
I thought in that moment about Dick Tracy characters. Flattop, Lips Manliss, Pinhead and me Bumpy Face, the tommy gun molasses runner, that sweats under hot lights.
"so no treatment, just reduce the stress?"
"exercise. exercise never hurt anybody."
"exercise?"
"shave close"
indignantly, i stomped out of his office, mumbling to myself. fuck kaiser and their endless string of quick fix health care doctors. "THRIVE," they say. its difficult for me to thrive when you don't do shit for me.
i moved casual down the hall from the doctor's office and into the elevator.
my moment of defeat goes something like this;
the fucking carpet gets yanked from beneath me, i hit the ground with a loud thud, as i land on my ribs. collapsed and crippled as punctured lung therapy, i'm aghast of breath. 'pull air in,' my brain says, but the lungs say 'no,' and i can't find any oxygen to let out the swell of anguish that burns inside me. i make soft touches at pneumatic machinery that dangles on my fingertips. the mirror of me and the stupid hole in my beard is swirling counter-clockwise in my head, laughing at me, with reverberated cackles, high pitched squeals and a crooked smile that can only be mine. i went limp at the prospect of a vixen at a various watering hole with dumb potential, looking at half my beard on the right side of my face and then tracing along to my left, she finds, to her horror and disgust, the blank-off white maelstrom that lay on the left side of my face, sucking in all the garbage off the bar. she's gotta run to the filthy bathroom to upchuck all her drinks from the sight of my incomplete beard. DING!
"own it," that's what everyone says.
"i didn't even notice it till you pointed it out," that's what everyone says.
"its not so bad," that's what everyone says.
"what's up with the hole in your beard," that's what everyone says.
i've resorted to make-up. women wear it everyday. i take eye-liner pencil and fill in the void. i dab my thumb with my tongue and spread the marking around. from far away it passes like a full beard. up close it looks like the hairs are shortened. i told you that i'm in touch with my insecurities.
this ordeal is eating away at me. i'm constantly focusing on it. i feel like i walk into a room and everyone has one eyeball on the super nova hole on my face, as it vacuums up all the crud and crumbs off the floor. this shit is psycho-somatic. its a CATCH-22. i have a hole in my beard because of stress, but i'm stressed because i have a hole in my beard.
