There’s a scene in the Netflix series Peaky Blinders when Tommy Shelby, the main character, discovers he’s been betrayed by his lover, Grace.
Sitting at the Garrison Tavern contemplating this heartbreaking revelation, Tommy engages in a conversation with Harry, the bartender.
Harry: “Will you go looking for her?”
Tommy: “She is in the past. The past is not my concern.
And the future is no longer my concern either...”
Harry: “What is your concern, Tommy?”
Tommy: “The one minute. The soldiers’ minute.
In a battle that’s all you get.
One minute of everything at once.
And anything before is nothing, everything after nothing.
Nothing in comparison, to that one minute...”
It seems like a lifetime ago.
It feels like yesterday.
The night I came home from the hospital it was cold and snowing.
It was bleak.
It was grey.
It was winter.
It was a lifetime ago.
Today while I write, it’s warm and breezy.
It’s bright.
It’s blue.
It’s summer.
It’s the one minute.
Days have melted together, inconsequential, ordinary groupshots.
Moments have stood up and out in bold relief, raised-hand, attention-seeking selfies.
The one minute of everything at once.
Flashback
“Can you give me that wave thing?”
I’m a boy.
1st grade, 2nd grade, some young grade when I trusted my Dad to fix my hair.
Standing on a stool looking into the bathroom mirror, my dad would work his magic and give me a mini ‘do of Elvis hair.
Swooped up in the front, rolled back down, high-ish and tight on the sides with just enough gel to last a playground day.
Stylin’.
A grammar school fashionista.
A glance or two at lunchtime in the reflection of the cafeteria swinging door to make sure my wave was still rising high.
Adolescent chic.
Other-worldly creatures called “girls” suddenly appeared on my radar at exactly the same moment my Dad-rocked pompadour went public.
Coincidence?
Chance?
I think not.
It was - and forever would be - surf’s up with hair wave expressions.
Flashforward
“Telogen effluvium...it’s a thing...”
It was several weeks after my carotid endarterectomy, I was in the shower, and while washing my hair, a handful came out.
Of hair.
Not just a few strands, mind you, this was...a lot.
Of hair.
A bunch.
A fistful.
Of hair.
For the next several weeks, I could run a brush through my hair any time of day and wind up with what looked like a small nest of locks.
Not an “oh look honey, there’s a couple of hairs on my pillow I think I’m going bald” incidents that hit men of a certain age.
No.
No pillow hair discoveries.
This was creepy, disturbing, and freaking out worthy.
A little confessional detour first.
I like my hair.
No doubt you’ve caught me over the years checking out my hair in a reflection or a mirror.
Sorry, not sorry.
It’s just a thing.
Blame it on the wave.
Call it what you want, I’ll call myself out on it.
I’ve fussed, primped (yes, primped), teased, highlighted, faux-mohawked, greased, blow-dryed, straightened, mulleted, shagged, cut short, grown long, and colored my hair.
(To all those who think you’ve “caught me” over the years, as in “I can tell you
color your hair!”, well, as the kids say, no shit Sherlock, that’s the point - it’s colored black, blue-black right now to be exact - because I feel like it, I like it, that’s the color I’m going for...it’s not like I’m trying to go all Grecian formula on anyone hoping to hide a few sneaky, rebel, rogue grays in the mix...).
And right now, it’s long.
Ponytail long.
I almost died, so I don’t care long.
Maybe that’s why the departure of all that hair was so shocking.
There was so much to come out when it did come out.
“Is this normal?”
I was holding one of my more nest-like nests of hair when I finally asked Lauren.
A few silent, uncomfortable, wide-eyed seconds too long gave me my horrified answer.
“You need to ask the doctor”, she said.
“Maybe it’s from all the drugs they gave you in the hospital”, she said.
“Maybe it’s from the surgery”, she said.
“You’re going bald, Barry Gibb, deal with it”, she didn’t say.
She’s kind like that.
“Telogen effluvium...it’s a thing...”
Lauren Googled my hair nest debacle and this was the first, second, and third entry that came up.
“During traumatic stress our bodies shunt nutrients to our hearts, lungs, muscles, and other vital organs. As a result, hair may be weakened and in some cases, hair follicles stop producing new hair. This is called telogen effluvium. This is the most common form of hair loss, and typically seen two to three months after a major body stress such as major surgery, chronic illness, or significant infection...”
Telogen effluvium...it’s a thing.
One more thing.
One.
More.
Thing.
Feel sick?
How about pneumonia?
But wait there’s more!
How about double viral pneumonia with a bacterial infection?
ICU worthy!
Brain cell loss, low oxygenation level worthy!
But wait there’s more!
Do you like sleep?
How about night terrors and stress disorder?
Do you like working and taking care of your family?
You say you like playing the guitar?
But wait there’s more!
How about a stroke?
With a carotid endarterectomy for good measure?
What was that?
You like to sing?
But wait there’s more!
How about vocal paresis?
(Tune in to the next episode for more on that joyous ENT visit).
What was that?
You like your hair?
You really like your hair?
But wait there’s more!
How about telogen effluvium?
A nice bout of hair loss to top this entire ordeal off!
I can deal with a lot, but seriously?
After nearly dying this is the next phase of living?
Daily hair nests coming out of my brush?
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
For the love of God, what’s next?
Penis reduction?
The telogen effluvium has mercifully stopped.
No more thinning, no more hair nests, no more follically challenged nightmares.
Don’t get me wrong, bald is beautiful.
Some of my best friends are bald.
Just not my time.
Just not this minute.
Traumatic stress hair loss might seem like a small thing in the bigger picture of things on my Covid or not Covid journey.
Or in light of cultural and world events.
But it was a thing.
It was one of my things.
It was a minute.
It was one of my minutes.
I see life in minutes these days.
Minutes that melt together, inconsequential, ordinary groupshots.
Minutes that stand up and out in bold relief, raised-hand, attention-seeking selfies.
Minutes of everything at once.
Nothing before, nothing after.
Just minutes.
Precious, beautiful, sacred, holy, frightening hair loss minutes.
Let me rephrase Tommy Shelby:
“The one minute. The survivors’ minute.
In life and beyond, that’s all you get.
One minute of everything at once...”
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