Paul Wojnicki - No Cure for Baldness?

About the Author

Following the publication of his first novel, Never Mind the Redcoats , Paul Wojnicki quit his job to become a full time hypochondriac and part time writer. He has experimented with almost every single lotion, potion and snake oil that has ever been touted as a cure for baldness, ranging from eye watering onion juice to the breast enhancing sex change drug Spironolactone.

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No Cure for Baldness?

A novel.

Paul Wojnicki

I am not the archetypal leading man. This is mainly for one reason: as you may have noticed, I have no hair.
Patrick Stewart

In loving memory of Bronislaw Wojnicki: Father, grandfather, great grandfather and baldy.

Rest in peace granddad.

Bronislaw Wojnicki 1926-2001

This book, including the section about the author, is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright Paul Wojnicki, 2008.

ISBN 1434841782

Cover design by Paul Cook

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the copyright owner .

It was a shock finding out to say the least. Id had no idea, no idea at all. I think it was Phil that pointed it out first. Perhaps he didnt find it too rude because he didnt have a single hair on his head. Ill never forget his words, they will haunt me forever.

Youre gonna go, he said.

Go what?

Bald!!!
The word hit me like a boxer on angel dust.

Bald.
What makes you say that? I asked.

Well, from behind, youre starting to resemble Telly Savalis.

He wasnt gonna pull the punches then. I looked at him; the sneering cretin was enjoying this.

Bullshit, I scoffed.

Fair enough, dont believe me then. But mark my words mate, youll go.

No chance, I laughed, but within minutes I was in the bathroom, trying desperately to align a vanity mirror with the large mirror on the wall, to view the back of my head.

Oh Christ! I screamed as I caught a glimpse of a gleaming patch of skin at the top of my vertex. My heart leapt and my hands suddenly felt wet through. I dried them against my trouser leg and aligned the mirrors again. Jesus the patch was like a giant crop circle on top of my head.

You found it then? Phil asked from the other side of the bathroom door, and I heard the sound of a number of people sniggering.

Found what?

Whatever it was you borrowed Alisons vanity mirror for.

Bitch. Id asked her to keep it quiet.

Look its not to check for a bald patch Okay.

What you checking for then? Haemorrhoids?

What?

Well we all know theres a large mirror in that bathroom, so why else would you need a vanity mirror?

I prefer the vanity mirror.

Well dont freak out when you see the size of your haemorrhoids, those mirrors make things look larger than they really are.

Of course, the mirror was concave. The patch might not be so big after all. It might even be my crown, magnified by the mirror.

That must have been the longest day I ever spent at the office. I was desperate to get home, anxious to examine the true extent of my disfigurement. Phil wasnt helping either, whistling the Kojak theme at his desk, while the rest of the team stifled their giggles.

At five o clock I grabbed my stuff together, jumped in the car and floored the thing all the way home. Once there I dumped my briefcase in the hall and made a beeline for the bathroom.

Confirmation.

There it was a pronounced ring almost as large as it had looked in the concave mirror. A great white skid mark across the back of my head.

I did not take this revelation well; I didnt take it well at all. I wept, smashed the mirror, punched the bathroom wall, grabbed another mirror, to get a third opinion and wept some more. I would probably have torn at my hair too had that not been the problem in the first place.

I was beginning to hyperventilate and could feel the tell tale signs of a panic attack coming on, the sweaty palms, the racing heartbeat and the tunnel vision. If I didnt calm myself down quickly Id have a full on attack of the heebie jeebies. Only one thing for it; a cold shower. That usually helped combat the dreaded panic attack.

The cold water felt good, invigorating, like a defibrillator to a heart attack victim.

CLEAR!

When I was certain I had warded away the anxiety attack I grabbed my rather dirty looking towel from the radiator and began to dry myself, starting with my hair. I put one foot onto the side of the bath to help me dry the underside of my thighs and as I did so I looked into the bath tub.

The scene of devastation in that bathtub was horrific. Shedded hair littered the bottom of the tub, dozens of them, fallen comrades strewn across the Perspex. Christ, was that normal? Id noticed hairs in the bath before but never that many.

I began to count them, eighty four in total. Were they all from this latest shower? Or had some been there before? When had I last cleaned that tub? Two or three days ago, probably, and I hadnt showered yesterday.

That meant they were freshly shed.

Im moulting, moulting. I screamed as I sank to my knees, sobbing and banging my fists against the bathroom floor.

Sleep was finally induced with copious amounts of Jim Beam, but it was fitful and with all manner of terrifying dreams. There was no way on earth I was turning up to work, so I picked up the phone and dialled my office.

Hello Neighborhoods and Housing, Derek speaking, my supervisor answered after a couple of rings.

Hi Derek, its Paul.

Hi Paul, whats the matter? Are you running late?

No Derek, Im phoning in sick.

Oh, OK. Whats wrong with you?

Baldness.

Sorry?

Baldness. Hair loss.

Are you serious?

Of course Im serious.

Baldness isnt an illness.

Youre not bald, are you Derek?

No.

Then presumably you have never been bald.

No.

Then dont tell me what baldness is or isnt. You couldnt possibly understand.

Well Im sorry to hear about your...er...loss but I cant possibly put down baldness as the reason for your absence.

Look here Derek, Im not hanging on this phone, while you lecture me on what is and isnt an illness. Just put my absence down as panic attacks, I have a long history. If theres a problem Ill have a doctors note in by Thursday.

Well, OK if thats what you want.

Thank god I worked for the council. With my sickness record it was the only job that could possibly keep me from homelessness. I could be off work for up to six months at a time on full pay, and with my nerves I often was. Thankfully the doctor was always quick enough to write me a note.

Anything to get me out his surgery.

My next phone call was to the doctors. I didnt feel like visiting the sceptical old bastard but it had to be done in order to keep getting paid.

The receptionist on the other end of the telephone wanted to give me an appointment the following week but I informed her that it was an emergency and she booked me in at eleven o clock that morning.

It was nine fifteen when I hung up so I had almost two hours before the appointment. I might as well take a trip into town; buy some essential items like a baseball cap and a tanning lamp. Why a tanning lamp? Ill tell you why, because the first thing I noticed about the creeping flesh on the back of my head was that its milky white colour contrasted sharply with the auburn hair that it was encroaching upon.