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Dr. Folly Cuelle:
Here is a guest essay by my neighbor, Harry Hardley. This is really
his response to a comment I made about baldness. Being bald myself,
I had admired some scars on his head and asked their origin. I'll
let him tell the story. I have done nothing but correct some of
his spelling.
I have been bald for many years. My hair loss began when I was just a kid in the United States Army. That was way back when we were defending the noble US oil cartels in Korea. I'm not sure what caused it. I suspect a steel helmet. The army, of course, denies all wrongdoing.
For those who have not experienced the joy of Army life, a regular issue helmet and helmet liner weighs in at about three pounds. The strap which supports the assembly makes creases in the users head. I suspect that inhibits blood supply to the scalp. When the sun is shining, it's kind of like having your head in an oven. At -30 degrees, with no sun, it's kind of like having your head encased in ice.
Actually, this hair loss did not bother me until my granddaughter learned to talk. then I discovered, someone had told her that my name was old skinhead. I have no idea who could have done such a thing, but Mrs. Hardley does smile when she hears it. You have no idea how crushing it is to have a 4 year old kid start to giggle when she sees you.
That's when I decided to do something about it. You must know that men who are successfully concealing hair loss are not about to discuss it openly. Thus, I was at a loss for advice on how to proceed. I never bothered to write to Sam Donaldson. I preferred to be successful.
What I finally decided was to check the Yellow Pages. Sure enough, under Hair Replacement, I found a large number of clinics. All of them insisted that their credentials were the best, but I found none which guaranteed results. I finally closed my eyes and stabbed a finger into the page. I found I had selected the Midwest Hair Restoration Clinic and Dr. Folly Cuelle. I called and made an appointment.
It was with some trepidation that I went to the clinic and signed in. I had visions of needles probing my skull and painful cuts and gouges from transplants. The possibility of infection also occurred to me. As my hour approached, I got more and more agitated. I was about to bolt for the door when a young woman opened the inner office door and summoned me.
It turned out to be Dr. Cuelle herself.
I felt somewhat relieved when she showed me to a barber type chair
and said, "Relax Mr. Hardley. Nothing will happen unless
you approve."
It helped that I didn't see any instruments lying about. In fact,
the place looked more like a styling salon that a medical facility.
"The first thing I want to do," she said, "is to
make sure you are comfortable."
Actually, her manner was doing just that. I was beginning to relax.
I grinned.
"Fine," she said. "Now, with your permission, I
will do a preliminary examination. From that, we should be able
to agree on a course of treatment."
What impressed me was her confidence. I was sure that she would
help me.
After the exam, she told me, my problem was relatively common and treatment would not require any surgical procedures. In fact, the treatment would constitute a simple procedure of scalp massage and a specially formulated ointment. It seemed too good to be true.
She did the first massage and I went home with a 2 liter jug of something which looked like tar. When I used it, it didn't smell too great either. It smelled something like a wet cat. I thought, what the heck, if it works, it's worth it. I stood in the shower and rubbed a huge handful of the stuff into my scalp for several minutes. When I flushed it away, my scalp was tingling. Perhaps it's working, I thought.
An hour later, my scalp was more than tingling. It felt like it was on fire. I was about to ask Mrs. Hardley to take a look when her cat entered the room, sniffing about. He looked agitated. When he saw me, he attacked immediately. He leaped upon my head, clawing and spitting. I could feel the gashes opening in my scalp.
I screamed and Mrs. Hardley rushed in.
"Oh my!" she said. "Bad kitty. Naughty kitty. You
stop that this minute. You shouldn't annoy daddy."
She carefully lifted the cat off of my head. It was not difficult,
for I had fallen on the floor. She put him gently out the door
and said, "Now you'll jut have to stay outside until you
learn to be a nice kitty."
I sat on the floor and wept.
When they looked me over in the ER, they said I had several
gashes in my head and what looked like burns.
A nurse asked, "Did you set yourself on fire?"
I just groaned.
The doctors took about 40 stitches and applied burn ointment to
my scalp. They kept me overnight for observation.
Three days after my ordeal, I called Dr. Cuelle's office. The phone had been disconnected. I didn't bother to go there. I was sure I would find an empty office. After about three weeks, my head had healed quite well. Mrs. Hardley says that the scars give it character. I agreed.
Recently, when I sit in my recliner, my granddaughter will sit on the arm of the chair and admire my scars. The old skinhead and giggling was just a short phase. When she asks me where the scars come from, I make up some swell stories. She would never believe the truth.
My advice. Be bald and be proud. Bald is beautiful. Let your head shine brightly. Someone should tell that to Sam.
Harry:
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