Carol’s Column

On a countdown to fall-out

ON Monday morning when I awoke there were 101 hairs on my pillow. I phoned my good friend Betty.

"I cannot believe this," I wailed. "I am going bald."

"Rubbish, you've still got 119 899 hairs left," she said. "How can you be going bald?"

"I've just read an article in 'The Scientific African' that states categorically that if you lose more than 100 hairs a day, you are going bald."

"Have a recount and a glass of gin," said Betty who is always reassuring in a time of crisis.

I returned to my genuine chicken-down pillow with its continental frill and counted once again. And found 102 hairs. There was no doubt, according to Dr Laszlo Toth of the state research centre in Budapest, at this rate of hair loss, I'd be totally bald within seven months.

"So what?" said my husband when I told him at the breakfast table. "Telly Savalas is bald and everyone loves him. Look what he's achieved with a bald pate and a lollipop."

"Are you suggesting I look like Telly Savalas?" I growled.

"No, I think you look more like Magnus Malan," retorted the man with whom I share my life, my bed and my pink bicycle.

I should have listened to my grandmother and become a second-row swan in the Bolshoi Ballet.

The following day, I consulted Irwin Gum, a well-known trichologist.

"Indeed, you have problem," he said, investigating my remaining hairs which were now down to 119 796 — I'd discovered 103 on my genuine chicken-down pillow that morning.

"There are several causes for baldness such as excessive stress or excessive joy. Did you ever hear about Ermentrude Hink who won R8 million, a round-the-world-holiday, a new house, private jet, yacht and Rolls, plus an island in the Bahamas? She went to bed ecstatic, but woke up screaming. Her lavish locks had fallen out overnight."

"Hm, I should have such problems," I muttered.

"Is your mother bald?" asked Irwin.

"Of course not," I retorted, "what a ridiculous question."

"No, baldness is hereditary," he said. "Perhaps your father's bald?"

"No, my father is hale and hairy," I assured him. "In fact, the only bald member of our family is Henry-the-Hog."

"Ah, well there you have it," he said triumphantly.

"Henry's the dog," I said.

"You see, I told you it's hereditary," he replied.

I returned home with a foul-smelling yellow ointment and instructions to eat brown rice, peas and broccoli.

It was to no avail. In the past few days I've lost over 700 hairs.

"You can always do a Frank Sinatra," said my husband as I tried to cover the bald spot just above my right ear. "Just transplant your moustache, ha, ha."

As always, it was my good friend Betty who came to my rescue.

"I've just read a remarkable story about a Devon farmer called John Combs who was as bald as an ostrich egg. He had a friendly Jersey cow called Primrose who used to lick his head. After four months, he regained his full head of hair."

"I don't believe you," I murmured.

"It's true. A Paris salon has actually installed a cow to do the same for their clients," she added. "Just now, in the Champs Elysee, a cow called La Vache is licking chic shiny Parisienne heads."

Like matric dance dresses and plastic buckets, there is a shortage of Jersey cows in Johannesburg. So far, the only cow available is a Dexter.

The point is, will any old cow do?

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