Ann Ipock
            Humorist, author, speaker

BMS: Bald Male Syndrome: Is There a Hormone for That?
by Ann Ipock

It's always amazes me just how different hubby Russell and I are. I mean, the things I fixate on are never the same things he fixates on. Take for instance, meal choices: He could care less what I cook – his reaction is the same whether I serve Coquille St. Jacques or hot dogs with chili. In fact, whenever I ask Russell if he's craving anything in particular, he always answers, “No, PB&J's just fine.” I think his reasoning is this: He'd rather have fewer dishes to wash than treat his taste buds to a gastronomical wonder. I, on the other hand, seem to “live to eat,” rather than “eat to live.” I love to explore different restaurants, exchange recipes and share homemade goodies. I enjoy grocery store trips, and I collect cookbooks.

I also love shopping for new clothes and especially shoes. Russell sees this as a chore. Therefore, I often buy him clothes for special occasions – his birthday, our anniversary or Christmas. The last time he needed new shoes, I made a deal he couldn't refuse, and then I still had to practically drag him into the store. I offered to arrive twenty minutes early to pick out styles and sizes, then line the boxes up for him. This reminded me of the old days as a teenager when I worked at The Bootery, our family owned shoe store. Though I didn't measure Russell's feet (I already knew the size); out of habit, I knelt down and pressed on the new shoe, checking for a “thumb's growing width.” When he screamed, “Ouch!” I jumped a mile, asking him what in the world was wrong. He told me I'd pinched his painful big toe, the one with the nasty blackish-blue toenail from an old sports injury.

Vacations would never happen in our household if I didn't study the catalogs and web sites, pick out the destination and make the reservation. I'll admit I'm obsessed with travel, and I adore searching out new, fresh experiences. The cultures, geography, environment – and yes, the foods of an unknown region – are exciting to me; not to mention the interesting natives who live in these far-off locales. Russell, on the other hand, is content sitting in his Lazy Boy, watching sports on TV.

So, yeah, I'm into food, fashion and travel. You could say I'm mesmerized with these things, I suppose. I'm either thinking about them, planning them or in the midst of doing them. As for Russell; well, except for golf 24/7, he never seems to be mesmerized by anything. Except…

A couple of years ago, Russell came out of the bathroom one day, looking ghostly pale. His furrowed brow and pained expression showed something was terribly wrong. Before I could speak he walked up to me and said, “Ann, let me ask you something.” I had no idea where this was going, but I played along, “Uh, okay, honey, what is it?” He continued, “If I asked you a question, you'd give me an honest answer, right?” “Well, sure,” I said, having no earthly idea what the link was between the bathroom and his frown. He hung his head down low. It was pitiful, y'all. I wanted to just grab him and hug him; but first things first: nosey-old me wanted to know the question.

He patted the top of his head, while biting his lower lip. The words tumbled out frantically, “Am I? Am I? Do you think? Oh, heck, Ann, am I going bald?” I wanted to say, “Is that all?” but of course, I didn't. Male pride is a terrible thing to crush. I immediately reassured him that no, he was not going bald, and that even if he was, he was so darned handsome that it wouldn't matter. I told him in the same tone I tell our precious daughters, that no matter what happens (hair or no hair) I would always love him. And I meant it. That response reassured him temporarily.

But, every now and then it would pop up – not new hair, but the same old question. In an attempt to stop the inevitable, Russell started trying new hairstyles (and new hairstylists), once even trying out a brown hair rinse. (Not a good idea.) At least these actions kept his mind off the hair loss thing, and he stopped talking about it. If he did ask my opinion, I simply said, “keep it short,” lest a few long strands fall out of place and leave him looking like “The Donald” with the dreaded comb over. Eegads!

Here lately though he's begun obsessing once again over his hair – not the hair on the top of his head; but the hair on the bottom of his head! About a month ago when we were sitting at the dinner table, I said, “Russell, when did you start growing a BEARD?” His answer was “two weeks ago,” insinuating that I wasn't the most observant person in the world. When I asked him why he was growing a beard, he just shrugged. I guess he decided he'd grow his hair anywhere it took root.

Yesterday turned out to be just plain awful. Russell was in the worst mood – “negative Ned,” our daughter Katie would have called him. Still, it's pretty rare for Russell to sulk. So I kept prodding, asking him if everything was alright. He had complained all day about everything from sorry TV choices to bad weather. He practically picked a fight with me about the laundry, insisting the purple towel HAD to go in the dark load. (I said “light” because that's where I always put it.) Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I stared him down, eyeball-to-eyeball, sitting in a booth at Carolina Roadhouse, saying, “Honey, what's really bothering you?” He burst out, “I'm going bald!” Here we go again. Just when I get over PMS, he gets BMS: Bald Male Syndrome; and it's much worse. Oh Lord, please tell me they make a hormone for that too!

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