facial hair

When I was in eighth grade, I had a friend who could grow a full beard. To me, it was a sign of advanced manhood that I wasn't ready for and I was grateful to not be so blessed. However, when my brother started sporting a slight pencil mustache, I was jealous. After all, I am a year and a half older and therefore by my logic should be able to grow facial hair before him. We're both equally ectomorphic and thus fellow late bloomers. I remember the day I proudly showed him my first chest hair and he wasn't impressed. I suppose he beat me to that milestone as well.

My mom once told me, hoping to prepare me for the worst, that there could come a day when my brother might grow taller than me. Somehow, in my young and dumb impressionable mind, I heard her warn me that one day it could be possible for my brother to grow older than me. This confused me for many years.

In any case, I was able to grow a fine Abe Lincoln chinstrap, which I put to the test on the Civil War movie "Andersonville." Twelve weeks of growth was impressive enough to support a pencil in my cheek hair but I still could only sport fuzz on my upper lip. At this point, my upper lip fuzz was invisible to blond in color, my chin was red, and my chops matched my brown hair. It was always embarrassing when the make-up lady had to darken my upper lip.

Over the years I longed to surpass my brother's facial follicle prowess until I noticed that he was losing his forehead hair. I guess the competitive nature he inherited from Dad also meant increased testosterone production compared to me. This explains the cause of my high school anxiety. You'd think I would have the greater testosterone production since I chose to perform movie stunts for my career. Sucks to be him, but then I still couldn't grow a decent mustache on my thirtieth birthday.

Today I am thirty-five and I can finally sport a true man-stache. I'm also thinning heavily on the top and front but my cul-de-sacs have not yet joined completely to form a five-head (bigger than a four-head). Thankfully, I'm married to a woman who doesn't mind the challenges of male-pattern manliness. It's still embarrassing when the make-up lady must darken my scalp so the lights wont reflect off my shiny dome through my thin spots.

There is hope for me. Just a few miles from my house, in Culver City, a storefront proudly advertises three times in large neon letters, "Hair Transplants, $2 per graft." Perhaps each week I can spend a few of my marriage discretionary dollars on the future of my ego.

The war front has suddenly changed. I've recently noticed a small grouping of gray hairs on the left side of my chin. How's a man supposed to win?

Ian