I’m lying on a massage bed. A masseuse paid by My Lover to help me relax after a 40-day week – or at least it felt like it – is working her magic on me. Soft music is being piped through the room, the lights have been dimmed just so, I can smell the lavender and almond oils and I know I should be really zen right now, but I’m not.

Instead, I’m thinking about the intro to this damn article since Biko tossed my last attempt at writing something. I’m still licking that wound. He basically said that what I did was shit, and so I’m on that table wondering why I can’t write something decent. Is something wrong with me? Is that why I just can’t let go and drift off into a relaxed sleep?

Or maybe it’s the fact that said masseuse does not move around the room quietly and keeps arousing me (get your mind out the gutter) from my struggle nap with every movement from bed to counter to replenish the oil supply, like she either underestimated how thirsty my skin would be or I’m a larger expanse of mass than she expected.

She also seems to be in a bit of a hurry. I feel like I’m being punished for being 15 minutes late to this appointment and she must make up for that time by rubbing a little faster. Turns out a Bolt-like massage speed setting isn’t very relaxing, no matter how calming the music playing is supposed to be.

Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m wondering whether she’s judging me for being overdue for a waxing appointment. My legs are past stubble to full-blown savanna and my pits are well – not very cute. I’m already preparing a really bitchy answer in case she suggests a quick wax. I have the whole conversation played out in my head:

Masseuse Bolt: “Have you ever tried a wax before?”

Me: (deadpan) “Yes, I have actually.”

Masseuse Bolt: “Did you like the result?”

Me: “Yes”

Masseuse Bolt: “Would you like one today? It’d make you really appreciate the massage. Massages are always better with little to no body hair.”

Me: “Well, my waxing lady was busy today and my hair grew as fast as this massage you’re giving me but I’m not suggesting that you slow it down to the same speed as my metabolism so let it go please.”

But the truth is, I could really use a wax. Process hurts like hell but it’s worth it. And I could probably use the time I spend checking whether the light is accentuating my leg hairs and then looking for “the right shadow” to do something better. Like a fearless fist pump. Or eat.

I mean, it’s not like I’m going for the 70s bush-lite look on purpose. I actually like being smooth. Makes me feel clean. Don’t kid yourself, there’s nothing better than smooth skin, it really allows you to feel, you know?

Now Masseuse Bolt has moved to my head. She’s still in a hurry. She’s not really paying attention to my needs, and she’s missing many spots. But of course she touched my bald spot. Oh no, she had to find that one. I know because I not only felt it – told you smooth skin is more sensitive to touch – she was kind of startled by it.

I know she didn’t see that coming, not with this thick crown of mine. But yeah, she found it, my little Baldina.

And the minute – ok, the eighth of a second she gave it – I had a eureka moment: maybe the reason I’ve been pushing off my waxing appointment is because I’m scared of losing more hair!

You see, I’ve developed alopecia. On my head. It’s not so bad, just two spots. One is dangerously close to my hairline, literally an inch from my face (I’ve somehow managed to mask it for the last eight months and the hair is growing back now). The second – I call her Baldina The Second – was spawned by O.B (Original Baldina) after a six-month gestation period and now chills at the back of my head.

Now I know one must not wish to be attacked by illness, even a non-life-threatening condition such as alopecia, and one does not choose when and where such things attack, but I’m just wondering why it couldn’t attack my legs, pits, somewhere but my head?

Is this my body’s way of getting back at me for forcefully plucking out my body hair? It’s like it decided “Oh, you want to be smooth don’t you, let’s just help you then”, and then went on to attack the only hair I feel I need on this body (apart from my eyelashes and struggle brows). That’s just a savage comeback man.

I’m now living in fear that my next waxing appointment could result in a tit-for-tat. I’m counting the number of waxes I’ve had and I’m certain that if I calculate them just so then I’ll find the relationship between them and the number of bald spots, which I’m almost positive will grow larger the more appointments I have.

So if you see me a little hairier than usual, do not judge me please. Help me maintain the little vanity I have left, because people with medication that reads: “For men or women with thinning or balding” cannot deal with stress or bullying – it’s not good for the follicles.