Mexico

Vol. 3, Issue 19

My father started to go bald when he was 16. He found this out in the cafeteria lunch line when the jerk classmate standing behind him said he could see the scalp through my dad’s hair. He was mortified and it quickly got worse. His hair was completely thinned-out by his senior year and he became a full-blown domer by 25. By 28 he was newly divorced and deeply insecure so he began wearing a toupee, but he called it a “hairpiece” to make it sound like it wasn’t just a wig.

Growing up, I rarely saw him without his hairpiece and he barely spoke about it, even with my mother. He got up from the table one Thanksgiving when an uncle inquired about whether or not it was waterproof. (It was not. It lost its shine and poofiness when wet. He always kept an older one around that he called a “swimmer” which looked a bit ratty so when he wore it to the beach or pool parties, it almost resembled wet human hair.)

I also remember there would be moments when we’d watch TV as a family and some hacky bald joke on Taxi or Soap – maybe even a wig would get violently pulled off of someone’s head – would cause the Live Studio Audience to explode with laughter. We, however, did not laugh at all. That memory still makes me squirm.

He had this styrofoam head-shaped thing in his bathroom next to the sink where he’d put it at night when he went to sleep. When I was super-young I’d sometimes kick it around like a soccer ball while he was at work mostly because I was bored and it made a fantastic echo noise when it hit the wall. One time I forgot to put it back next to the sink and our dog took an apple-bite size chunk out of it when I wasn’t looking. When my dad got home from work, he was furious that I’d been playing with it. “DON’T TOUCH THIS!” His voice was so big and loud and embarrassed. He carried the damaged head back to the bathroom like it was a Ming vase.

I never found his hairpiece too embarrassing, but I knew how uncomfortable he was without it so to see him bald was extremely rare. The only time he didn't wear it was when he slept at night. I’d hear the ripping sound of double-sided tape coming from his bathroom and, weirdly enough, it calmed me.

My mother didn’t mind his baldness and she encouraged him to ditch it several times, but he’d get agitated anytime she bought it up. The thought of officially being bald, even in his mid-40’s, was terrifying. He’d hid behind it (beneath it?) for so long that it was tough to imagine him not being buried in it.

Sometimes when was half-drunk and home late my dad would forget to put it on the styrofoam head and he would accidentally leave it in the sink. My mom would find it the next morning and yell at him while he was still nursing his hangover in bed.

“Albert, don’t do that! I thought it was a dead crow!”

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I just finished my 5th Step in Al-Anon with my sponsor, after I completed the 4th Step workbook specific to Al-Anon called Blueprint for Progress which is an extremely intense and meticulous method of conducting a “searching and fearless moral inventory.” I do recommend it but be forewarned that it's intensive, deeply personal self-examination. And you must take it very, very slow.

I began BFP in May of 2019. So for almost two years, I’ve carried this thing around with me in my backpack. Every other week I'd meet with my sponsor at a cafe after I finished a section to read through it with him. Each session would take about an hour at a time and he’d listen intently at every one of my answers. When something sounded clunky or evasive to him he’d have me circle that part. “Take another look at that later,” he’d say. I would, and there would always be a new discovery, often one I wouldn’t like. Am I being truly honest here? Do I want to be?

The process was often soul-grinding. So I’d put it down for a while (several months, even) and would only jump back in when I was determined (and desperate) enough to go deeper. The question remained: how uncomfortable was I willing to be to find peace?

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In 1980, my father was a newly promoted regional manager of some desolate cluster of Ford-Motorcraft dealerships in South Jersey. As a reward, he was required to mingle with hundreds of other regional managers and their significant others at a company outing in Acapulco. (This was when Acapulco was considered a glamorous vacation destination.) At his boss's request, he was appointed the official master of ceremonies throughout the entire four-day conference.

Even though it was a bunch of self-important sparkplug salesmen he had a healthy level of nervous energy about the trip because of the added responsibility. These work trips were usually just an excuse to act like a drunk idiot on the company's dime but this one suddenly became very important for his career.

My father was never much of a risktaker, especially when it came to possible public humiliation, so this part is astounding to me: For some reason, he packed only one hairpiece for the trip. He’d had it blown out and poofed-up for the event, the same sort of routine he’d do for weddings and other black-tie affairs. But he only brought one – ONE.

He realized it was a foolish mistake on his very first day at the beach.

The surf in that part of the Pacific was more unpredictable and punishing than anyone from the Ford crew had expected. My dad waded in only a little past his knees when a wave pounced on him and knocked him backward and completely underwater. Dazed and gasping for air, he popped right back up but realized his hair was gone. Panicked, he went back down after it. He continued to go back down again and again in desperate search of his hairpiece.

My mother – and a few of his co-workers and their wives – witnessed the whole unfortunate ordeal from their beach area. My mom quickly rushed into the ocean with a towel and wrapped it around my father’s head so tightly some onlookers probably assumed he’d suffered a severe injury. But given the circumstances, you could make a winning argument that this was actually worse for him.

Neither one of my parents knew what to do. He’d already met many of the conference attendees and they’d be very surprised to see him come up to the dais later that night completely bald. Some might even think it’s an elaborate, completely absurd prank. The only option was to pretend he was deathly ill and to fly back home.

My mom told me years later that there was actually another plan in place – a cowboy hat. That would have been a little less odd (maybe), but not an abnormal fashion statement of that era.

After a few more minutes of panic, my dad draped the towel completely over his head and prayed for what I can only assume was a quick and merciful death.

But then, just as he’d begun to accept his fate and concoct a reasonable excuse to leave immediately, a soaking wet man in a skimpy bathing suit– a true angel from the deep – walked over to my mother and presented her with what appeared to be a clump of black seaweed. “It hit me in the foot,” the angel said.

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According to my Blueprint for Progress answers, most of my insecurities made me a real grand-prize asshole. That’s not a groundbreaking discovery for me or anybody who does this type of step work, but the frequency with which it happened in my life was illuminating. Plus - it always began with fear. Fear of being called a loser. Fear of being seen as a sociopath. Fear of being alone. Fear of being a shitty writer. Fear of humiliation. Fraudulence. Inadequacy. Impotency – it was all here, in circled, scribbled out sentences. Replace “shitty writer” with “shitty sparkplug salesman” and “sociopath” with “bald man” and my dad and I were pretty much afraid of the same things.

His solution was to become a world-class yeller and a total bully. He would always ask for the supervisor when he thought the customer service was lacking, or, if he really felt enraged, he would threaten to sue (although he never did). I’m sure these types of fears are why he became a Republican.

Still - we are more similar than I ever cared to admit, powerless over the same silly little things and both capable of causing others significant amounts of torment and pain.

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Part of the insanity of having a hairpiece is how much maintenance is required to keep it as human-looking as possible. Even though my father’s cousin – the infamous Uncle Johnny – was a hairdresser who specialized in styling men’s wigs, it would still cost several thousand dollars per year even with a significant family discount. Plus, after three decades of wearing one, his pieces had to constantly be updated so that they wouldn’t be too fake-looking. No one would be convinced that a shaggy Dennis Wilson hairstyle on him in, say, 1988 was real.

The death knell for my father’s hairpiece came around 1997, when George Clooney’s dumb-looking Ceaser cut became the dominant men’s hairstyle. Uncle Johnny did his best approximation of it for him, but it was a total disaster. My father taped it on, took one look in the mirror, and realized it was time to let this part of his identity go once and for all. He was 55 years old.

The decision didn’t come easy, though. It took a few months to build up the courage, but my dad finally set a date for when he’d do it. Every spring he took a golf trip with several of his friends down to Mexico – real old school greaseball Mancations=type jaunts – so that’s where it would happen. He would be very drunk, very secluded, and around his closest friends.

Once he arrived, he threw away his hairpiece, drank a few B & B's, and went to the local equivalent of s Supercuts in a strip mall. “Take it all off!” And off it went. He was now no longer bald – he'd shaved his head.

Once my dad got used to his new look, I asked him if, knowing what he did now, he would have gotten rid of his hairpiece sooner.

“Absolutely,” he said. “I wasted so much time worrying about it.”

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If you’ve been reading this newsletter for a significant period of time, you know that my relationship with my dad is complicated. My father makes up a huge chunk of my BFP answers about resentments, plus he makes appearances in other sections of the workbook, none of which portray him as a very kind or understanding man. But this step in Al-Anon made me realize I spent far too much of my life angry at him and never enough time trying to understand him.

Because my father is in the throes of Alzheimer’s right now, I sometimes imagine how he’d fare in Al-Anon right now – how much it would have helped us over the years – but that’s also a waste of time. We have what we have right now, even if he’s only lucid during only half of our Facetime conversations.

My mother routinely sends over this batch of old photos she comes across, in the hopes that I’ll put them in an album to show to my children one day because she’s very afraid they won’t remember them after they’ve died. I keep meaning to do it, but most of the photos are just in loose piles in random boxes of clutter.

I cleaned out a box last week and found this one photo of me and my dad from Christmas 1974. I was about 9 months old and he was 32. I look exactly like my youngest son does now, but my father looks like a person I never knew – so happy, so at peace.

And his hair looks amazing. – AJD

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*All illustrations by Edith Zimmerman*

If you'd like to submit Fan Mail to us about some of your own recovery experiences hit us up here: editors@thesmallbow.com

If you'd like to check in with me personally, here's where I can be reached: ajd@thesmallbow.com