Hair Scares and Other Tressful Times

We've had some hair issues in this family lately--some good, some bad, some surprising, some expected, and yes, some ugly.

The good: I've saved quite a bit of money skipping my hair appointments, so go me! It's good for an unemployed budget. Of course, my ponytail is now a horsetail and I'm three steps away from wearing mom jeans, God help me. My hair is also several shades of brown with some silver highlights. But hey, maybe I'll inspire a new trend in patchwork coiffure.

I'll skip the bad for a minute because that goes along with the ugly.

The surprising: When Stinker was born, he came out with a lovely head of copper hair. Our sweet little ginger! And it didn't fall out and return in a different color, like Boss's did. We're guessing it came from Paw-paw. Love! It!

The expected: Having shed a small dog after I stopped nursing Boss, I expected the same thing to happen when I stopped nursing Stinker—and it has, as it's fairly common due to hormonal changes. So, after every shower, there's a tarantula hovering around the drain. Despite Hubbo's hair fetish, this does nothing for him; apparently he likes hair on the head. Ah well, so much for my subtle shower foreplay. On a good note, my hair is growing back and is temporarily wavy around the hairline, which I like.

Now for the bad and ugly. Part 1: We have a cat named Robots who pulls his hair out. It's a nervous thing. He bites off tufts (apparently this soothes him, according to the vet) and he spits the black fluff all over the carpet, chairs, beds, etc. He's especially careful to aim for light-colored areas for maximum impact. Anyway, there's no scabbing or related problems with this habit other than he looks like a mangy, patchy, pathetic puss. It also doesn't feel as nice as a supple pelt would, but that's OK. I give him lots of love when he chases me into the bathroom for some toilet lap time, his favorite.

Part 2: Apparently Robots taught Boss that pulling out hair makes for happy fun time. Beginning in September, Boss began yanking out his glorious blond curls as a self-soothing mechanism; he'd do this in his crib where we never saw it happening. Most kids opt for thumb-sucking, but Boss likes originality. There's an ugly word for this condition: trichotillomania.

It wasn't until a bath one day when Boss's hair was wet and smoothed down that I noticed a gaping bald spot the circumference of a coffee cup, maybe even a doughnut (You're welcome for the visual; now go get a bite and come right back). Pow in the stomach when I saw it. We soon had his hair shaved down to try to even things out, but there was no hiding it lest we went 100 percent bald. I talked to the doctor, I did some reading, I fretted and I found lots of hats. He was too young for behavioral therapy or wearing gloves to bed. The good news? He'd likely grow out of it, said the doctor, if not soonish (whenever that was) then by the time he was in preschool or kindergarten and kids started making fun of him. Oh, now that was comforting.

One idea they did suggest was to let Boss pick out a “lovey,” ideally a hairy one, and take that to bed so he could tug on the lovey's hair instead of his own. We had him choose one of his neglected stuffed animals, a furry, cuddly teddy bear. Soon, the bear was exchanged for his Little People firetruck, then his Hess truck with matching tractor, then his dump truck, then various renditions of Thomas (the tank engine), then little race cars, and even a few boats of various sizes and snugly materials like metal and plastic. What can we say, the boy loves his fleet. And we love that his hair is growing back in, six-plus months later, one slow strand at a time.

As you read this, I implore you to rush to the closest wooden item you can find and give it a hard knock in regard to the statement above. In fact, bang, bang, bang on the door, baby! If you're outside with a Blackberry or some other whatchahoozy gadget, tag the closest tree, punch the air in confident victory (to summon the power of positive thinking), and worry not what the neighbors think. I assure you—it won't be as embarrassing as a palm-sized bald spot plaguing your 'do.