A friend visited me this past week. He does not have much hair. Inasmuch as I am over fifty I have many male friends who no longer have much hair. Let me clear that I see nothing wrong with being bald. I am not a tonsulary essentialist. One of my pals shaves his fuzzy noggin with a Bic. Let’s be clear: a good life is about obsession. And the best lives are about obsessions that do no harm. I’ll leave the rest to you. I think I envy my bald friends. I think I have baldy bean “the grass is greener” fantasies –not because I don’t like my hair, far from it, but because I have one of those complicated and compulsive hair pulling disorders. I’ve had it since I was around ten years old.
I know this shouldn’t interest you. I can scarcely admit sufficient interest myself. But I pull hair off my body and let me tell you, it doesn’t matter “where” the hair grows–and let me tell you it’s not fun. I want a fun compulsion. And though I’ve read enough psychoanalysis and cultural theory to build a tower, I still fantasize about a non-contiguous, un-heralded, quasi-healthy fixation. Is that too much to ask? Apparently it is because the gods had other ideas for me. They made me blind, anxious, hard working, and fixated on helping others, even to my own detriment. Does this sound at all like you? I bet it does. But I bet you don’t pull out your hair.
I went to a behavioral therapist, who was and is a very fine fellow. We decided that I might just forgive myself about this minor problem and move on. So I’ve forgiven myself. But I still have trillotrichomania
Does it matter? I think on the whole I’d rather shave my head. I think on the whole I’d rather graze on my hands and knees like a horse who searches out the last dandelions.