My husband is bald. Elegantly, handsomely bald. This has been a fact of his life, and mine, for more than ten years. It snuck up on him when he was in mid-thirties and completely overtook him by the time he was forty. That’s when I gave him a buzz clipper for his birthday. His face fell so far he looked like a Dali. I pictured a kind of ‘Out of Africa’ hair-washing scene with me in the Robert Redford role (damn it). David saw a ‘Mommy Dearest’ Bon Ami moment (No more silly comb overs!). After he’d buzzed it off with a number 3 blade–just a hint of spikiness, not a ‘do’ per se but not an invalid-ish hairless-ness–he never went back.
Don’t get me wrong, I like hair, Dave just doesn’t have it (and, he didn’t ever have a comb over). Think Bruce Willis, Ed Harris, Sean Connery bald. He has gathered a certain fierceness from his baldness of late and it is oddly thrilling. When he wears a black turtle neck and glasses my friend Kelly calls him Farfernoogen, the German Architect. When he’s in a white shirt and khakis we call him Biff, the astronaut. When he’s in a suit it’s Oh, Monsieur!
Now and then I go to the cafe nearby for a coffee. (This is going somewhere, trust me.) I sit outside at a rickety table and do the crossword. Monday it takes me ten minutes, I don’t even finish the coffee. If it’s a Thursday, I throw it away after half an hour, humbled. Some months ago a man sat next to me at the little table. I was all ready to give him the “What? You can’t sit at your own?” look when I noticed how handsome he was. Jaw-dropping, blush-making, I’ve come undone-inducing handsome. And, he had hair. Lush, swept back from a tan forehead, sleek as an otter’s back, hair. He did not have eyes on the side of his head, like an otter, thank God, or he would have seen me staring. Then again, he must be used to that kind of reaction. I regretted my raggedy jeans and Chucks with all my heart. I cursed the reading glasses that dangled from their chain around my neck and I was humiliated by the scribbled-over Friday puzzle on the table.
I would say we sat in companionable silence but he hadn’t even acknowledged me beyond the raised eyebrow, “May I?” look when he walked up. Soon, I left, clenching my butt muscles and flamboyantly tossing my newspaper in the recycling bin. “Look at me! I am planet friendly!” my toss said. I have been back several times and twice (twice!) the man has been there, too. Once he was already seated and I gave him the “May I?” sign. The other time, he arrived after me and, yes, chose my little table at which to rest his gloriosity. I have had the opportunity to observe him, his pristine iPhone, car keys and lighter on the table in front of him. “I have an iPhone, too!” I want to chirp, although mine has a scratch on it’s back and a bit of gum stuck to the side. He is indeed beautiful, and contained, almost measured in his habits. Always two coffees, always his effects arranged just so, one cigarette, and one only, before he leaves. If it is sunny, he wears sleek black sunglasses and if it is chilly, a cashmere sweater under his slim jacket.
On the third sighting the man spoke to me. No, he didn’t tell me that he came to the cafe because he couldn’t resist my allure or that he just had to tell me how he was drawn to my quiet beauty (so quiet some mornings that it needs to learn sign language). Here’s what he said, “You must be very smart. I’ve never seen anyone rip through the crossword like you do.” Smart, I am very smart, oh yes I am! He stood to leave. “Be careful of that patch of ice,” he said. “It’s frangible.”
I nodded, as mute as my quiet beauty and waited till he’d turned the corner. Then, I frantically googled frangible on my trusty, sticky iPhone. “A formal adjective meaning brittle.” I tested the word on my tongue: frangible. It was delicious, like spun sugar. I returned to my coffee and my puzzle, strangely energized by the kind of complement you really ‘get’ when you’re a grown up. And there it was, 7 down, “Breakable, said the Old French Man.” Frangible.
That evening David came home from work and prepared for a run. He stood in front of the hall mirror for a moment. “I really am bald,” he said. I brushed my hand over his head. It was enticingly rough, like a cat’s tongue. He looked shocked at his own appearance and a little sad. Frangible, he looked frangible. I was about to tell him that it didn’t matter, that he was my handsome husband and I loved him just this way when he turned to me. Pulling a face that would do Picasso proud, David said, “Call me Mr. Potato Head,” and ran out the door with a cheery wave.
David is not the least bit frangible, not at all. And, can I tell you? Thatis what makes a beautiful man.