Recession Fears
Why I don't tell my boyfriend I take Propecia.
by Will Doig
February 25, 2008
The first person ever to notice was my manager at Xando, which is now called Cosi, which is a chain of snappy little coffee shops that proliferated in the late '90s. I was twenty years old. I was sporting what I thought was an Eddie Furlong haircut circa Terminator 2, but which was actually more of a Tony Clifton minus the lambchops. It was ridiculous, but I thought it looked great.
My manager said, "You growing that long now to make up for later?" Then he tipped his little black Xando cap in mock salute, revealing a scalp the tint and texture of a mole rat.
The worst thing about going bald is not that it indicates aging, or a decline in sexual virility or anything as silly and New Age as that. It's that it's part of the Big Competition. High salary? Add four points. Lame job? Minus one. Big dick? Add two. Going bald? Minus three. Today, the center-front of my hairline remains intact, but the two sides have been ebbing like a beach approaching low tide for nearly a decade.
Three years ago, it got bad enough that I couldn't fake it with a clever haircut anymore. By that time I was dating someone a few years my senior. He was also balding, and to combat this, he took Propecia, a once-daily pill you take to stop hair loss. I found it in his dresser drawer one day, with the anti-depressants. He'd told me about the anti-depressants, but he'd never mentioned the Propecia.
"Propecia?" I laughed. To me, twenty-six at the time, the very idea was hilarious. I associated hair-loss remedies with Sy Sperling and infomercials for fake hair in aerosol cans. He explained that he'd started taking it after his last breakup, afraid that if he went bald it would be hard to find another boyfriend. After he and I broke up, I started taking it for the same reason. It was like a family heirloom being passed down the line, except that instead of an engagement ring or a communion dress, it was a neurosis in the form of a prescription drug.
Half a year after that relationship ended, I met my current boyfriend. It wasn't until halfway through our first date that I noticed something interesting about him: he's bald! We'd met online, and this sounds disingenuous, but I pretty much didn't think about the fact that he was bald until that moment when I did — I guess I'd noticed it, but it didn't really register. He's one of those rare guys who pulls it off well. I don't know if he knows I take Propecia. If he does, he's never brought it up, and neither have I.
It's the only real secret I've kept from my boyfriend. He knows all about my pathological fear of being ignored, that I blister for days over tiny perceived snubs. He knows that The Biggest Loser makes me cry. But we've never talked about the Propecia.
He knows about my anti-depressants — I leave the bottle on the dresser sometimes. The Propecia: that stays in my messenger bag, stuffed deep into the pocket where I keep my spare toothbrush. One day I accidentally left it on the sink in his bathroom. When I got to his house after work that night, before he'd gotten home, I saw it there and panicked. Could he possibly have seen it? Who left the house first this morning, me or him?
Viagra, contrary to popular belief, is not the most embarrassing men's pharmaceutical. Viagra feels almost swanky in a bachelor-pad, orgy-ready, condoms-on-the-coffee-table sort of way. It's aggressively proactive — it says, "Kiss my ass, old age. I'm not done fucking yet." It's an offensive shove, not a defensive cower like Propecia. And Propecia is humiliating because, even in this day and age, male vanity feels pathetic. Men are expected to look good, but not preen. We're supposed to be effortlessly sexy, like it just sort of happened. In addition, at $207 for a three-month supply, Propecia makes the user feel hopelessly bourgeois, which only makes you feel older — the very thing you're trying to deny.
My Propecia habit makes me realize that I've chosen conformity and self-interest over idealism — exactly the attitude I used to hate. Exactly the attitude I used to associate with aging. Clearly it's no longer about fearing eternal singledom; now that I'm dating someone, my reluctance to go bald is pure gamesmanship — with the world, with my partner, with anyone else out there who might want to date me. Because even if I'm not looking for a date, I still want to be dateable.
Now that it's preventable, going bald is like an act of defiance. I can see Propecia becoming a standard corrective measure in the future, like braces, and only a few rebellious souls will reject it, the same types who go vegan and tattoo their necks. They'll be snickered at, but also secretly envied by the rest of us for rejecting the ever-shrinking parameters of attractiveness.
There are times when I think about becoming one of these people. It would be as easy as not picking up my next prescription. So far I haven't been able to work up the courage, which, in the Big Competition, probably loses me at least three points. n°
© 2008 Will Doig & hooksexup.com