The Toupee Store

The Toupee Store

By Leo de Natale

Illustrations by Vince Giovannucci

Francis Anthony “Frank” Capelli was one of those poor bastards who had the genetic misfortune of premature baldness. By age 22, his dark curly Italian hairline started heading northward. Each day as he peered at the face in the bathroom mirror, a few more hair follicles were Missing In Action.

By his mid-20’s he noticed a discernable change. His hairline was rapidly receding and panic began. Everyone in his Italo-American family – father, brothers, cousins—all possessed thick, full hair. Someone, he thought, in my family tree had passed this goddamned bald gene down to me! He became more self-conscious of his “curse” and began losing sleep. He often would awaken in the morning with hair follicles covering his pillow.

Naturally, the teasing began among Frank’s friends.  “Hey Franky, pretty soon you won’t need shampoo!,” said one wag.  This was Step 1.

          At the beach someone yelled, “Hey Frank, put on a hat.  Your head is blinding me. What, are you polishing that dome?”

          And on it went.  He became more self-conscious.  He did, in fact, begin the first phase of dealing with alopecia.  He started wearing baseball caps. He’d stare in the mirror and say, hey, that covers things up  “real good”.  But what to do while working in my office?  He had obtained a well paying job as a securities analyst in Manhattan and obviously couldn’t wear a hat while at work. He felt uncomfortable around the water cooler with his fellow employees.  Were they staring at his bald head?

By age 28, the receding hairline reached end stage. Terminal baldness. There I am, he said to himself, I’m the next George Costanza. Feeling depressed, Frank sought counseling. The psychologist was Dr. Bertram Holiday.

          “Doctor, this baldness thing is really affecting me,” he told Holiday.  “I feel as if everyone is looking at my shiny head.”

          Holiday, who was also bald, attempted to comfort this young man.

          “Frank, take it from someone who’s already there,” he said, patting his hairless pate. “Men and women perceive physical attraction from much different perspectives.  Women don’t find men unattractive if they’re bald. Or fat.  Not all men crave tall, curvaceous, busty women. Many men find flat chested or Rubensesque women physically appealing.  It sounds trite but beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder.”

Despite several therapy sessions, Frank couldn’t shake the neurosis occupying more of his daily consciousness. After struggling with such mental calisthenics, he arrived at Step 2. He was given the name of an exclusive “salon” in midtown Manhattan. It was a by-appointment-only business called Louis XIII and located at a nondescript storefront just off Park Avenue.

He opened the store door and was greeted by a short, elderly, well-dressed portly man named Hyman Kamens. “Call me Hy”, he said with a thick Brooklyn accent. He wore an overpowering cologne that nearly gagged Frank.

Hyman “Hy” Kamens

Hy was somewhere in his 60’s, had huge baggy eyelids and held an unlit meerschaum pipe in his left hand. His soft, pasty hands were adorned with star sapphire rings on both pinky fingers. Both hands were manicured and finished with clear nail polish. His teeth were yellowed from years of smoking but he had a friendly smile and a disarming manner. He knew why Frank was there. Frank noticed Hy was wearing a jet black toupee. To Frank’s surprise, the “piece” he was wearing still had a bobbling price tag label attached around the neckline.

“Franky boy, I know you’re looking at the tag,” he said. “I do that as a joke. Just for effect, Bubby! By the time you leave here, no one will know you’re ‘carrying’ a rug”. With that comment he dramatically pulled off the toupee revealing an very bald Hy. He tossed the toupee it against a mannequin.

          Hy asked Frank to sit in a comfortable lounge chair that faced a floor-to- ceiling mirror.  He spent 30 minutes measuring Frank’s skull and from various angles photographed Frank’s head with his iPhone.  He then uploaded the data and photos to a laptop. 

          “So Frank, let’s get down to decision time regarding the style,” Hy said.

He switched to another computer program and various celebrities’ heads popped up on the screen.                           

Frank was overwhelmed with the technology but more fundamentally aware he was potentially agreeing to a drastic lifestyle change. In his heart he knew wearing artificial hair was a Band-Aid, quick-fix solution to his problems of physical and psychological pressure young bald men endure. After all, Hy was bald and it didn’t appear to affect his outgoing nature. Salesmen usually have that ethos.

          “Gee, Hy, there are so many styles to choose from,” Frank said. “What do you think?”

          “Frank,” Hy replied, “You’re a good looking guy, a nice Italian boy.  With your hair color and complexion, I’d go with the Burt.”

Trusting Hy’s judgment, Frank opted to become the second coming of Smokey and the Bandit. Hy said fabrication would take two weeks. Frank was to return for delivery and special instructions. Step 3 was about to begin.

          Two weeks later, Frank returned to Louis XIII for the delivery.  He was still equivocating about the $6,000 expenditure.   With theatrical flair, Hy and his overpowering cologne entered the salon. He carried a blue velvet hatbox and placed the box on a table.  The coronation began.

          “Now close your eyes, Frank,” Hy said as he opened the box.  Frank complied and suddenly he felt a soft furlike object being pulled over his head.  “Open your eyes.  What do you think?”

          Frank gazed into the mirrored wall and was taken aback.  There he was, staring at a familiar face with  black 80’s style locks adorning his head.  It was certainly a different look and, from a distance, appeared natural.  He was a different man and it momentarily threw him back into the future.  So this is what I might have resembled for the past 10 years, he mused.  He had to admit  the toupee appeared natural.  At least to him.

          Frank relaxed and actually was pleased with the transformation.

“Ok, Frank, you look terrific,” Hy said. “Now, Bubby, I want to go over some rules and regulations about your new ‘unit’. Number one: on windy days make sure the unit is really secure. If it’s extremely windy – like Chicago—try to work from home. Number two: once a week, clean the unit thoroughly, especially in the summer, to avoid TO – Toupee Odor. Number three: on hot humid days always apply anti-perspirant to you entire head. Otherwise, people will notice what we call “the drip line” – you know, sweat soaking your real hair that will make the unit more noticeable. And number four, when you wear a hat, use the two-handed approach and remove the hat very, very slowly.”

          Hy gave Frank an avuncular pat on his right cheek.  “You’ll learn to love your Burt”, he said. “Go Bubby.  Live your life. Enjoy.”

          Frank left Louis XIII and felt very positive about his decision.  He noticed passersby as he walked up Park Avenue.  Heh-heh, these people will never know what’s underneath the rug.  Of course, he had already considered how he would handle reactions from his co-workers at the office.  He anticipated there would be kidding or giggling, but he was at a point where he didn’t give a fig.  Women wear makeup, dye their hair, wear uplift bras and no one criticizes.  He knew there’d be some flak, but it would subside.  He didn’t care.  His peace of mind was the number one priority, and his family was understanding and supportive.

          For one year, Frank had no regrets about his decision.   He started joining his work buddies at the countless dating bars in Manhattan.  Wearing the toupee had increased his confidence and he became less inhibited with women.  It wasn’t long before he began dating women at the clubs.  That’s when the glitches started.

It’s one thing to party with twenty-somethings but things change as intimacy grows.  He met a tall, beautiful, blonde and blue-eyed security analyst named Melanie.  Phone numbers were exchanged.  They began having frequent luncheon dates. Beside stimulating conversations, both felt a physical attraction. Soon, Frank had replaced his original “unit” for a new, odor-free model.  Step 4 was beginning.

Frank’s job responsibility was increasing along with his salary. He was quite good at financial analysis. Finally, he called Melanie and invited her to dinner at New York’s posh Village Green restaurant. He preened in front of his bathroom mirror and made sure the unit was securely in place. He splashed on a subdued cologne – even spritzed some on his piece. Frank regularly went to the gym. Physically he was in very good shape. He still had an athlete’s body. Decked out in an Armani suit, but tieless with a designer shirt, Frank arrived at Melanie’s Upper West Side apartment and taxied to the restaurant. Melanie was dressed in a stunning spaghetti -strap dinner dress and stiletto high heels. She was rapturous and her Chanel No. 5 smelled wonderful.

          The dinner was elegant, the wine delicious.  Coffee and dessert followed. 

Clearly there was animal magnetism between the two.   They returned to Melanie’s townhouse for a nightcap……. or maybe more.  The apartment’s design was contemporary. They quaffed brandy and sat on Melanie’s  leather Scandanavian sofa.  The more they talked, the more they liked each other.  She was of part Swedish, part German ancestry and grew up in Minnesota.  She seemed oblivious to the thing that was parked atop Frank’s head.  They sat closer together and lovingly stared into each other’s eyes.  And then, boom, Step 5 surfaced with a vengeance.

          They began kissing and when Melanie went to caress Frank’s hair he bolted upright and moved away from her. 

          “What’s wrong, Frank?” said a startled Melanie.  And then she stared closely at his head.  It was an Aha! moment.  

          “Frank, that’s not your real hair, is it?” she queried.  “Oh my god, you poor thing.  You’re living a make-believe life.  Why can’t you be yourself and avoid such a charade?  You’re being dishonest with yourself and me.”

          Recoiling in egregious embarrassment,  Frank began revealing what an irrelevant condition, baldness, had done to his psyche and his life.

          “I’m sorry, Melanie,” he said. “I feel like such a phony.  I don’t like pretending to be someone I’m not.  This makes me feel crappy.”

          Slowly, Frank stood up, grabbed his jacket and left.   All the depression and insecurities that had washed over his youth reappeared.  He called himself a fraud and the fairy tale The Emperor’s Clothes popped into his head.

          In reality, Frank knew a day of reckoning would arrive.  He knew deep down his fake hair would eventually cause more heartache and depression, Hy Kamens be damned.

          He texted Melanie an apology and regretted he didn’t possess enough self-assuredness to appeal to someone who was clearly an honest and forthright person.

That night, he grabbed the toupee, kicked it across his living room floor and tossed the “piece” into a trash can.  Step 6 had arrived.

          Interestingly, between the onset of Frank’s baldness and his jolting experience with Melanie, norms had changed.  Male baldness was becoming cool and acceptable.  Professional athletes were going with the Michael Jordan look. Baldness went mainstream.  Even Bruce Willis embraced his natural physical appearance.  Yeah, baldness, that’s the ticket.

          The following day, Frank went to his favorite barber who had been cutting his real hair very, very carefully.

          “Ok, Vito,” Frank said.  “Let’s do it.  I want a buzz cut, right down to the skin!”

Fifteen minutes later and after looking into the mirror, Frank left the shop with nary a hair on his head. This is the new and real me and he thought to himself, to paraphrase James Brown, say it loud, I’m bald and I’m proud!

          And he texted Melanie.  Again.