Losing some of my hair when I turned 50 was a discouraging knowledge.
Be that as it may, losing every last bit of it a year ago when I turned 56 was magnificent.
I have this thing about hair. It's not so much a repugnance or a fear. I essentially have a lot of it, for the most part in spots where I don't require truly require it. Like straggling over my back in limitless woodlands. What's more, crawling mosslike down the scruff of my neck. Also, shooting out of my ears every which way like an unkempt Albert Einstein (aside from without the brains).
Practically everywhere.
My dad had comparable issues. He some of the time shaved twice per day, once in the morning before going to work, and again at night on the off chance that he had a night meeting.
Possibly it has something to do with my ethnic legacy, which is for the most part Lithuanian and Slovenian. Also, I think, part Eurasian cocoa bear. At any rate that is my girl's hypothesis. Which she estimates each time she culls my congested eyebrows or the five o'clock shadow from my external ears.
VIDEO: UNSUSPECTING BARBER GIVES MIKE PENCE A HAIRCUT
Better believe it, I'm essentially secured with hide, aside from in the one spot it is important: the bare spot on the back of my head.
All that changed a year ago when I met Melphalan.
Melphalan is the stuff they shoot into you the day preceding you get an undeveloped cell transplant. My pal Corky, whose spouse had a transplant a couple of years back, calls it "horse executioner chemo." That's presumably a well-suited depiction. One 30-minute implantation kills each white platelet in your body through the span of a week. Works so well, I had it done twice: Once in February and again in August. Kind of like multiplying down on your abatement possibilities.
Notwithstanding executing white platelets, Melphalan likewise slaughters the vast majority of your hair. Inside a couple days of the treatment the hair on my scalp began turning out in bunches. Taken after by about the greater part of the hair on my eyebrows, facial hair, mid-section and focuses south. The tile on the shower floor resembled a cocoa shag rug when I ventured out.
Since I knew it would happen, I wasn't generally frightened. Rather I was more inspired by perceiving what I'd look like after the change.
I was viewing the last scenes of "Breaking Bad" when this was going on and I got it into my head that, better believe it, possibly I could pull off that renegade Walter White uncovered look. I felt a genuine proclivity for the character; the two of us moderately aged white men in deadlock vocations with mounting hospital expenses due to an all of a sudden tumor analysis.
Be that as it may, losing every last bit of it a year ago when I turned 56 was magnificent.
I have this thing about hair. It's not so much a repugnance or a fear. I essentially have a lot of it, for the most part in spots where I don't require truly require it. Like straggling over my back in limitless woodlands. What's more, crawling mosslike down the scruff of my neck. Also, shooting out of my ears every which way like an unkempt Albert Einstein (aside from without the brains).
Practically everywhere.
My dad had comparable issues. He some of the time shaved twice per day, once in the morning before going to work, and again at night on the off chance that he had a night meeting.
Possibly it has something to do with my ethnic legacy, which is for the most part Lithuanian and Slovenian. Also, I think, part Eurasian cocoa bear. At any rate that is my girl's hypothesis. Which she estimates each time she culls my congested eyebrows or the five o'clock shadow from my external ears.
VIDEO: UNSUSPECTING BARBER GIVES MIKE PENCE A HAIRCUT
Better believe it, I'm essentially secured with hide, aside from in the one spot it is important: the bare spot on the back of my head.
All that changed a year ago when I met Melphalan.
Melphalan is the stuff they shoot into you the day preceding you get an undeveloped cell transplant. My pal Corky, whose spouse had a transplant a couple of years back, calls it "horse executioner chemo." That's presumably a well-suited depiction. One 30-minute implantation kills each white platelet in your body through the span of a week. Works so well, I had it done twice: Once in February and again in August. Kind of like multiplying down on your abatement possibilities.
Notwithstanding executing white platelets, Melphalan likewise slaughters the vast majority of your hair. Inside a couple days of the treatment the hair on my scalp began turning out in bunches. Taken after by about the greater part of the hair on my eyebrows, facial hair, mid-section and focuses south. The tile on the shower floor resembled a cocoa shag rug when I ventured out.
Since I knew it would happen, I wasn't generally frightened. Rather I was more inspired by perceiving what I'd look like after the change.
I was viewing the last scenes of "Breaking Bad" when this was going on and I got it into my head that, better believe it, possibly I could pull off that renegade Walter White uncovered look. I felt a genuine proclivity for the character; the two of us moderately aged white men in deadlock vocations with mounting hospital expenses due to an all of a sudden tumor analysis.
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