I'm not only not the president...

This is a true story...

You may or may not find what I'm about to say difficult to believe, but it is the truth. I had struggled with a certain condition in varying degrees over the years and it finally worked its way to the forefront of my daily thought patterns in the early 1990's as I was approaching my 30th birthday. It was then that I decided to stop dreaming about how the other half lives, and to do something about it instead.

I sent off for a package of information concerning the issue at hand. It came in a mostly unmarked envelope and when I opened this parcel with great anticipation, it was filled with brochures and pamphlets outlining what this great company had to offer. I feel obliged to keep the name of the company out of this post for reasons that will become apparent shortly, but the pitch line for the television commercials is the president of the company holding up to the camera a "before" picture of himself while stating "By the way, I'm not only the president, I'm also a client."

So I'm looking through all these fantastic brochures with page after page of "before" and "after" photos of the various men who have become customers, and I'm really stoked about this. I couldn't wait to go there myself and see what they had to offer someone like myself. I called the 800 number listed on the material, and I found out that there was an office right there in Houston! Wow... talk about lucky. I thought I'd have to go to New York or Los Angeles... or maybe even Atlanta. Right there in Houston... my home town.

I scheduled the appointment and on the chosen day I went to the twin towers of Houston on the South West Freeway and made my way up to the designated suite. The sign on the door said simply "HCM"... I knew I was in the right place.

I boldly walked into the lobby and strolled up to the window and announced that I had arrived for my consultation. I was asked to wait a few minutes and someone would be out shortly to assist me. In the waiting room was book after book with the same type of "before" and "after" photos of the many happy patrons of this fine establishment.

When "Tom" walked in and asked me to join him in his office, I thought "Here it is... the moment I've been waiting for since I was 19 and started noticing my condition." We walked to his office, he sat down behind his desk after inviting me to have a seat, asked me if I would like something to drink (I declined), and we began our conversation.

He began by telling me that he knew how I felt about my condition. Many men have come in to his office and he's been able to help everyone who seriously wanted help. He told me how much better I would feel about myself and how this would really help my low self esteem. Ok, that's good to hear, but my first thought was "How can this guy, who has a full and great head of hair, possibly know how I feel about losing mine?" I was really kind of put off by this blatant presumption. I was rapidly losing interest in this guy and I was about to excuse myself and forget the whole thing.

I wanted to go home.

He must have sensed my inner reaction to his obviously fake empathy, because he asked me to take a look at something. He reached into his top desk drawer and took out two 8 by 10 glossy photos of none other than "Tom". I took the two 8 by 10 glossy photos of "Tom" in my hands and commenced to study them carefully. These were the same type of "before" and "after" photos I had been studying for the past few weeks ever since I received my packet in the mail, but these were of the man sitting before me.

I wanted to hug him.

I couldn't believe it, and the look on my face must have told him that I couldn't believe it, so he stood up and asked me to do the same. He sat down in the chair that I had been sitting in and he asked me to stand behind him and look deep into his hair all the way down to his scalp, in an attempt to convince me that this was the real deal. He said I should use my fingers to part the hair so I could see the mesh against his scalp. I had no real qualms about doing this... until an image from some PBS show popped into my head in which orangutans were picking bugs off of each other. I quickly withdrew my arms and politely informed "Tom" that I had seen all I wanted to see.

I wanted to send "Tom" back to the jungle.

He then suggested taking some measurements of my head so we could get a ballpark figure and start choosing hairstyles. COOL ! ! ! He started rummaging through his desk drawer for the measuring device. I started looking around the room for one of those head measuring things that they use for newborns... looks like some kind of protractor with a dial on the top, but I didn't see one. "Tom" excused himself and went down the hall to find one.

He came back into the room carrying a sophisticated 23rd century looking device apparently invented for measuring heads... a ruler. A plastic ruler. A blue plastic ruler.

I wanted to take it from him and beat him about the head and shoulders.

He stood behind me and put the zero edge of the ruler next to my hairline on the right side of my head, then rolled the ruler across the top of my scalp to the left side hairline, marked the ruler with his thumb, walked around the desk and wrote down the number. Then he took the sophisticated 23rd century looking device apparently invented for measuring heads and got a measurement of the range of hair loss by performing the same highly technical procedure from front to back, noting again the reading by marking it with his thumb. He wrote that number down next to the first.

He sat down at his desk and looked at these two numbers. I waited for the appearance of some type of calculating instrument and a formula placard, but no. He just stared at these two magical numbers for what seemed like an hour, then looked up and calmly said "Twenty five hundred dollars... give or take a few."

Are you kidding me?????

How in the world did he come up with this figure? Then he started talking about how much better I will feel about myself and my appearance once I consent to spending a few dollars and how can one put a price on self esteem and blah blah blah...

I wanted to slap him.

I could only stare at the guy. Again, he sensed that there could possibly be something slightly askew in his presentation techniques, but he pressed bravely on.

He asked me how I would like to see what I would look like with a full head of hair. Sure ! ! ! I kinda really did want to see that. He said we would have to step into another room. OK now... this is better. We must be heading to the room where all the really advanced technology is kept. Computers... scanners... the newest age software developed for just this purpose. I should have known better. We walked into the office next door and he asked me to sit in an old barber's chair. Then he left the room.

Do you know those kiosks they have at the mall sometimes where you can take your picture and they scan it into the computer right there and then in a matter of seconds you can see what you would look like with 50 different hairstyles? Well, he didn't have one of those. I was hoping, but no such luck. What he had was something even better and far more advanced. A Polaroid camera.

I wanted to go home again.

He asked me to look straight into the camera and then pressed the button. The little square film came whirring out, and he took it by one corner and waved it back and forth as if that might help it develop faster. I waited patiently and after a minute or so of extremely awkward silence (except for the flapping back and forth of my picture); he looked at the picture with a satisfied look, held it up for me to gaze upon, and proudly stated "This is what you look like."

I wanted to kick him in the kneecaps.

I held what little composure I had left so he could scan the photo into the computer for my 50 different hairstyles, but instead he took out a black felt-tipped pen and started drawing black "hair" to fill in the spots where my blond hair, (did you catch that? BLOND HAIR) wasn't growing anymore. He drew and drew and looked at me and drew some more... looking like some cheap imitation of Pierre, the finest artiste in all of France. When he was finished with this masterpiece, he held it out to me for my approval with one hand, a contract in the other hand, and had the audacity to say "There... doesn't THAT look better?"

I wanted to kill him.

I stood up calmly, looked directly into his eyes, took a deep breath, and said "It looks like I've got ink on my head."

Today, I am fine with the way I look. Sure I would like better hair, or less waistline, or whiter teeth, but my self esteem certainly needs no boost by artificial means. I am proud to say that I'm not only not the president; I'm also not a client. In the years since my adventure into the world of blue plastic rulers and ink drawn hair on Polaroid photos, I have come to learn that our Creator in His infinite wisdom has made billions and billions of human heads... and the ones He doesn't like, He covers up with hair.

How can I complain about that?

Until next time...