100 Things About Me #119

The Wolf Mike
A doctor regulates my blood pressure with the drug Minoxidil. (That was my pill bottle on display in the post "Got My Fingers Crossed for Twins!")

The Minoxidil is working quite well for me, too. My heart is pounding away less erratically. It's mostly calm, except for the occasional violent upswing, where ebullient strangers never fail to fall in behind to join my conga line.

This medicine, I'm told, was developed for blood pressure control, but has an
interesting side effect, causing unusual hair growth in many patients. So much so, a hair restorer product, Rogaine, was developed around the ingredients.

Sure enough, even though I've been blessed with the patented, luxuriously tousled surfer boy hair you've seen and coveted from afar, I have indeed experienced new growth on the top of my head. My mane is definitely thicker and darker in spots.

Stylist Karen has been so impressed, I'm now paying a thicker and darker fee to her for each scalping.

I do get a price break, if I plunger Karen's 'poo sink after each washing of the often remarked upon patented, luxuriously tousled surfer boy hairs.

My sheds are retrieved from her drainpipe and fashioned into carpet tiles for public housing or the occasional pro wrestler's chest merkin.

I've also witnessed the appearance of odd hairs on my ears and an added fullness in my beard. For example, look closely at this photo. Believe it or not, it was taken less than three hours after my latest barber shop clean shave with a straight razor.

I raised stubble before finishing the lollipop.

My legs, after years of wearing tight jeans, were not especially furry before Minoxidil. Now, they sport signs of revival, as do my arms. This picture of my left wrist shows where I wore my watch for more than 40 years. A few months ago, there was NO hair on that spot.

I've noticed a wild patch of hair evolving on the small of my back at the waist. Ordinarily, I would go, "Eww," but it's actually a good thing, camouflaging that increasingly unfashionable tramp stamp tattoo.

Recently, watching our beloved HDTV, I've seen disturbing vertical lines and shadows in the images. I was concerned the set needed repair, until I happened to catch a sideways glance in a mirror. My eyelashes have gone into hyperdrive, growing dense and elongated. They are twice as long than at any time in my life and account for the mysterious lines and shadows I wrongly attributed to the broadcast monitor. I have to force my eyes wide open to keep lashes out of the field of vision.

These snapshots fail to fully capture my patented, luxuriously tousled Lindsay Lohan lashes (although mine are real). We don't wish anyone to become overwhelmed.

My wife is jealous of these curly pelts on my lids, but she did enjoy a quick flutter in her direction on those hot August nights.

Not everything to do with the harvest o' hair has been good, however. The Federal Aviation Administration has court-ordered me to not blink excessively outdoors. I tend to lift off and blip on the air traffic radars.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go mark the calendar for the next full moon.

Party Night.

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