I was recently informed by the lady who cuts my hair that they now make a shampoo that helps with balding. At first I assumed she was just making small talk, but soon realized she was talking about me, not to me. It should be noted this lady is a close family friend and runs with my wife on a regular basis. I am not accusing Brenda of having someone else do her dirty work, but I am all about full disclosure, especially somebody else’s.
Apparently the scalp goes through a transformation that leaves the surface shiny, signaling the end of youth and any chance of being famous for something other than a horrific crime. This new wonderpoo is suppose to eat away at the sands of time and leave your scalp fresh and ready, leaving me with visions of that afro I have always wanted.
Excited to meet the new Joe, I hoped into the shower to begin the fist day of the rest of my hairy life. As I worked this magic elixir into my scalp a noticeable tingling began to assuage my fears of being left not only bald, but shiny bald. This comfort was interrupted by a subtle change in the aforementioned tingling.
I realized that I had neglected to read the directions, which by the way is what will probably be engraved on my headstone. I have been shampooing my own hair for some time now, and rarely do I take the time to make sure nothing important has changed. I bravely finished the shampoo portion and moved confidently to the conditioner phase. As I applied what one would think to be a balm, a relief, or at the very least some chemical formula on the other end of the Ph scale to neutralize my science project. Not so. One might even suggest an escalation had taken place leaving me to consider the importance of reading the directions.
The tingleburn was now front and center and providing ample covering fire against any bastions of my pride that felt compelled to attack as I tried to read what was surely important information. Unfortunately my eyes started to fail me around forty and I rarely shower with my reading glasses on anymore. This left me with the “squint and stretch” technique, a mating dance employed by middle age men the world over when trying to attract beautiful women. It involves bringing the bottle close to your face and squinting, then stretching your arm out as far as you can to try and discern the microfont laser etched into the side of said bottle. After a few back and forths, common sense kicked in and I simply washed it out.
After my shower I returned to the scene of the crime, reading glasses at the ready, to make sure a call to poison control was not in order. As it turns out the directions I was trying to read were in French and anybody that really knows me, knows that my French is worse than my eye site. Sacrebleu!!
As fate would have it, everything worked out. My scalp eventually stopped burning, plans to invade Canada (they are closer) subsided, and I learned a few things about myself and medicated shampoos. Now the only thing I can do is sit back and wait for my soon to be, sweet chia pet afro to rear it’s ugly head.