November 5
So, see, I posted this photo because I didn't want you all to think that I am without hair, because I am not! I have hair! Just not enough hair for my comfort. I went off to FABI OF ROME, which wasn't as I'd feared, in a strip mall. It was in a totally nowhere section of West Hartford, not near any malls or stores (well, there was a 7-11 on the next block, and as an aside, there's something about 7-11s that I just love. I don't know if it's because I can buy a Slurpee there [which I haven't in years], or WHAT, but whenever I see a 7-11, I want to go in and buy shit I don't need to eat.) or anything. The place itself was in a house, which isn't too freaky, because when I used to get my hair cut and dyed regularly the place I went to was in a house, but it was also on a major avenue and had all of these signs up that indicated that it was a House Of Beauty. This place, not so much. I wish I'd taken a photo of the sign because it did NOT say "Hello! Come in and get your hair done in a pretty way, and PS, we will make you less bald!!" It more looked like a sign you'd see outside of a Dentist's office. APPOINTMENTS NEEDED!
Inside, it was freezing cold (which adds nothing to my tale, I'm just letting you know that I was displeased with the temperature). There was a gray marble (YES!!!!) fireplace with all sorts of gold doodads and fake flowers surrounding it. On the floor, a giant bronze elephant (no, I have no idea what it had to do with anything either). I made my way to the back, where the guy (Fabi, I assume!) was doing something with someone I could not see. I was stupid early, because I never really remember how long it's going to take me to GET anywhere in CT, so I always end up places either a half hour early or a half hour late. He told me to make myself comfortable in the waiting room, which I did, on a weirdly overstuffed green leather sofa (note: the walls were light blue. The sofa, dark green. The overall look was very confusing) covered with crumbs of some sort. Not being the fastidious type, I didn't notice them until after I sat down, and by that time, I didn't so much care (again, not sure why I'm mentioning this). I looked around until my eyes rested on a white pedestal. Atop the pedestal was a cherub, about four feet tall, painted white. Around the cherub's feet, a crown (can a crown be on someone's feet? Probably not)of plastic (silk, maybe?) tiger lilies. His eyes were painted blue, and he stared at me. So that I wouldn't get creeped out, I picked up a magazine (I scanned the titles on the table, saddened to see that there was no "MODERN HAIRPIECE" or "Bald Spot Gazette" or "WIGS WEEKLY") and hid behind it. Finally, I heard the sound of a blow dryer, which if you've ever been to a salon, definitely signals the end of whatever you've had done to your hair, and a few minutes after that, an old woman came teetering out.
Her head didn't look bad, so I was somewhat mollified that if I chose to let him work on my head, I wouldn't look any worse than a 75 year old. As she walked out the door, he (Fabi?! I really need to check the business card he gave me) called me in . "DANA? [which he pronounced "Dah-nah"] Come in and have a seat in the chair!" I walked in and looked around. Four chairs. "WHICH CHAIR?" "THE CHAIR!!!" "Um, sir, there are four chairs in here!" He sighed, and said "THE ONE THAT LOOKS LIKE A CHAIR IN A BEAUTY SALON!!" I sat.
Fabi (!?) came in and assessed my head critically. "Oh, yes. Yes. I see it." and told me about options he could offer. Option one was a WIG. Now, let me just get it out of the way right off the bat that I don't see a damn thing wrong with wigs. I think they're fun and if you need them, they're absolutely the right option. I'm sure I see people with wigs constantly and wouldn't even know because the good ones are made of human hair and are about as costly as a used Nissan. The idea, however, that at 34, I'd have to commit to a life of wearing a wig sort of makes me want to step in front of a bus. Plus, I learned today that when you get a wig for alopecia, THEY SHAVE YOUR HEAD. Contemplate that while I say it again: THEY SHAVE YOUR HEAD!!!! Now, if I thought that I'd look CUTE with a shaved head in my day to day life, I WOULD HAVE SHAVED MY HEAD ALREADY! I'm not afraid to sport a shaved head! I've done it! Natalie Portman did it! That means it's COOL!
The second thing he told me about was something called HAIR INTEGRATION, which sounds a little fascist("Hair. You suck. You are failing at your job, which is being HAIR. Prepare to be INTEGRATED"). What it is is there's a small (like, palm sized) piece of meshy fabric, with hair woven through it that gets attached to the head by weaving your (my) hair through the mesh, so it looks like it's your own hair, and then secured down with what I assume is fishing reel. This sounded like a great idea to me, since I don't believe that 90 percent of the actresses/models you see don't already have one. You can't see it, and wouldn't know it was there unless I told you (as I am doing now, quite obviously) about it. He showed me someone's HAIR INTEGRATION system which was in the shop for a tune up, I guess. The cool thing about it is that it can be pretty much whatever color, length or style I want, which is sort of awesome. I miss playing around with my hair. I miss dying it all the time. I miss hair as an accessory rather than a chore.
Of course, the next part was the price. You know how sometimes, someone will tell you something you know is going to be extremely shocking, but you don't want to seem like a dick, so you mask your face into a semblance of something that's not utterly horrified ? Like, you freeze your mouth in an understanding smile, and you try and keep your eyes soft like they're not going to roll back into your head right beforen you hit the floor ? Well, that's what I tried to do after he quoted me the price. For two of these INTEGRATION SYSTEMS (I guess you need two, because what if you fuck one up or someone pours tar in your hair out of jealousy or religious fervor?) it is $3200. Thirty two hundred dollars, people. I tried as best as I could to keep my expression neutral. I asked about payment plans. He gave me a "Aw, poor little poor baldy girl who doesn't have a spare $3200 lying around" look. Going there today, I had been prepared to write him a check, you see, because I'd already decided that unless he was a total freak, I would pay him to make my hair better. I had been prepared to write him a check for about $300 as a down payment, thinking optimistically that whatever he could do for me would cost about $1k. Oh, how silly and wrong I was.
I left, after I took his card and promised I'd call him back if I could figure out a safe way to shit out three thousand dollars. I was bummed, honestly. I was way the fuck out in Stupidville, Connecticut with my stupid old hair and my stupid old problem again. When I got home, I called my Grandmother who sensed that I was just about at the edge of what I could take, right at my breaking point stresswise, and said "Listen. It's expensive, but it's worth it. Between your mother, me, and what you can kick in, let's make it happen". I haven't spoken with my mother yet, because she's in Atlantic City, the lucky thing [note to 935ers: yes, she's at the Borgata], but my grandmother gave me a glimmer of hope that I might just be able to have a year or two without feeling like everyone is staring at my head.
I'm not sure why I ended the story on such a downer. I didn't mean to, but Alopecia is truly an awful thing. I wouldn't wish it on anyone (okay, that's not true. I can think of a couple people I'd wish it on). It fucks with your head, because it doesn't hurt and it won't kill you, but there's no cure and it digs into your self esteem like almost nothing else I could cook up, and it's extremely difficult for me not to feel very hand wring-y and "Ohhh, why MEEE, god, WHYYY MEEEEE??" about the whole thing.
