I’m Losing My Hair

Song of the Day: “Slide” by Goo Goo Dolls

I think I am slowly, but surely, losing my hair. Ever since I moved in to this apartment, I can’t help but notice the accumulation of my hair on my bathroom vanity cabinet and sink. I can’t really tell if I’ve always lost hair at this rate, considering I have lived with seven other guys for the last three years. I think that during those years all of our habits and daily routines melded together into one big blur so that none of us could differentiate our own repulsive habits or (in this case) loss of hair. I can’t help thinking that this is just a natural process of growing, that I’ve always lost hair but I’ve never noticed it. And maybe a contributing factor is that I have been under a lot of stress ever since moving here. Naturally I’m far too lazy to actually research the subject, but I’m sure that stress in one’s daily life contributes to hair loss. But even still, I can’t help thinking about my genetics.

Everyone tells me that I look like my mother. I can’t help but agree, it’s true. And you know what? I’m OK with that. To the fairer sex, I would venture to guess that a slightly more feminine, rather than masculine, appearance would appear more approachable, let alone accessible. I have seen pictures of my mother as a teenager and young adult and I must say, in a completely platonic way, she was a very attractive young lady. But I am not a male carbon copy of my mother, that much is quite apparent when you break it down.

I look like my mother. I have her hair color. But my hair is not thick like hers, that gift was given to my brother. He will never go bald, ever. Me, I have hair like my father. While he does not have a full head of hair, he is certainly doing well enough for his age. There are plenty of men his age with no hair at all. Even though I may not have my mother’s gift for thick and everlasting hair, I am glad that I have either one of their genes.

Heritage is a funny thing. I can’t help dissecting and analyzing my attributes and how each one is attributed to different sides of my family. I am just like my father in personality: I am an introvert, I am shy, I am not personable, and although I am amiable, I generally hate people I don’t know. I look like my mother: I have her eyes, I have her hair color, I have her allergies, I have her medical conditions (I could go on forever about my nosebleeds as a child, and lets not forget my allergy to penicillin or cats), and last, but certainly not least, I have her entire family’s propensity towards liquor.

When I consider my last point, I am afraid. Some people say that it takes a lot to admit that you’re afraid. But I thrive on putting myself down, so just call me Captain Deprecation and assume it’s easy for me. I am afraid. My mother’s family has a history of alcoholism, psychosis, and heart disease. I can’t help thinking that I am extremely prone to these conditions and that my current lifestyle is doing nothing but contributing to it. My grandfather died in his early 50s from his fifth (someone correct if I’m wrong on this?) heart attack. He had a drinking problem. I have a drinking problem. I stopped drinking for about a month and after that I pretty much took a nose dive into the bottle. I am on my third glass of Patron (really good tequila for you layman out there) after I don’t remember how many other drinks (I think four, but who’s counting anyway, right?).

I can’t help thinking that I am heading down the same road the my grandfather took. I never met him. Maybe I won’t ever get to meet my grandchildren? Hell, maybe I won’t even live long enough to get married and have kids of my own. I know this is a bit extreme. I do exercise regularly so I don’t think I have to worry about keeling over any time soon, but I think to live a long and healthy life without requiring a liver transplant, I need to consider my lifestyle and I need to consider what I’m doing with my free time. The reason I quit drinking for a month was because I spent the entire summer drinking by myself and someone close to me asked me to. Now I’m right back where I started; drinking by myself.

A friend of mine told me yesterday that I have been on a self-pity streak for the past week or two and that I needed to break out of my funk. I never really thought about it like that, but once she put it that way, it became very clear to me that that was what I was doing. And after I came to the realization that she was absolutely right, I resolved that I would try my hardest not to do that. What I write here isn’t a cry for help. What I write is simply a projection of me. Of my thoughts, my fears, my weaknesses, my eccentricities, my strengths, my time feeling sorry for myself.

Even after my resolutions, I find myself writing this post and feeling sorry for myself. The past few paragraphs have been structured exactly the same as the entirety of my past few postings, and this disgusts me. This is not the point of my blog. This space is not a crutch for me to lean on and use to make excuses why I am not being proactive about my life. This is where I unload my stress and insecurities about my day to day life. Sure, I can see how it’s easy that the two can bleed together, but I’d like to think that I’m sufficiently self-aware to realize when I wasting time feeling sorry for myself.

For the first time in a while, I felt good about myself today. I was satisfied. I went to the gym and had a really intense workout. When I got home I wasted a few good hours being exhausted just sitting around watching TV and drinking tea. I know I should have spent the day doing research for one of my final projects, but I just felt so surprisingly upbeat that I didn’t want to ruin it by doing something so uncharacteristic of me like concentrating on a paper earlier than a week before it’s due. For some reason, I like to take a long time to mentally plan out any paper I write, but that’s another story.

Every time I yawn ( which is a lot; I bore easily), my jaw hurts like hell. It hurts so bad that every time I do yawn, I have a sudden urge to kill somebody. I’m yawning too much, so I better call it a night before I break something.