The Non-Expert
Detectives and Dire Baldness
Experts answer what they know. The Non-Expert answers anything. This week ROSECRANS BALDWIN digs into the mailbag and finds tales of philandering and absent follicles.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- Boats We Missed (Of Recent Note)
- The Hot ______ of the Summer (Of Recent Note)
- Staycations (Of Recent Note)
Also by Rosecrans Baldwin
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- Smoke and Mirrors (July 25, 2008)
- Today We Learn About Canada (May 30, 2008)
- Ladies First (May 16, 2008)
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* * *
The Non-Expert gets lots of mail, and most of it offers great deals on Viagra. Occasionally a sincere plea for help makes it through but we promptly forget about it and go on to read one of the eight messages we receive daily from sincere woeful teenagers asking for diet advice (all because of one stupid, easily Google-able column).
The Non-Expert cannot dine on diet questions alone.
Question: Am I an evil girlfriend for wanting to hire a detective to see if my boyfriend’s cheating on me? Do detectives even exist anymore?—Twana
Answer: Twana, the game is afoot. Private detectives are still around and in big numbers these days—in the U.S. alone there were about 43,000 snoops working in 2004—and though hiring one to investigate your boyfriend’s philandering may be sneaky, I don’t think it’s evil; evil I reserve for co-workers who guilt-trip you for taking your allotted vacation time.
But why pay for detection when you can pick up a detective novel or switch on the TV and learn the trade on your own? I’ve caught a few episodes of CSI and Without A Trace and read my fair share of private-eye books—the lessons to be gleaned are instructive:
—Everyone sees but few observe. Pay attention. When he’s occupied watching old videotapes of his ex-girlfriend, inspect your boyfriend’s physical appearance: Do any telltale blond hairs cling to his shirt cuffs? Do mud speckles on his left pant leg—but not his right—tell you he’s been standing on a different subway platform than normal? Be patient and inconspicuous. Even genius criminals eventually drop clues. All those odd Victoria’s Secret charges on his credit card might not be for his aunt’s birthday—have you considered he may have made those purchases to throw you off the trail?
—Run a miniature camera through your boyfriend’s blood vessels at high speed. If he objects, demand to know if he’s cheating on you. (Note: If you don’t have a miniature camera, you can threaten to use a normal-sized one.)
—As a general guideline, the guilty party is never whom you first suspect. Or always is. Or is the butler/secretary/pool boy. Or the widow/father/jealous sister/spurned flame. The one thing you can be certain of is that you didn’t commit the crime. Though you should interrogate yourself, just to be sure.
—Be witty when you feel a stage of the investigation is complete: “Someone should give that guy a hand” for the criminal with the severed wrist, or “the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” for the criminal who ran a camera through her lover’s abdomen and chest cavity. If no one’s around, write your quips down and share them with your boyfriend in bed—it’ll be a nice way to make up for your driving him into the arms of another woman.
—Pick up some Bluestar and spray down the house. Follow the color guide closely. Anything that glows blue was once stained with blood. Anything that glows green was once the site of a drum circle. Anything that smells of whore is where your dreams of marriage and children were destroyed. Anything that’s been sprayed should probably be dry-cleaned.
—You find a used condom in your boyfriend’s pants. Dim the lights around the house. Throw on a navy lab coat over a snappy pantsuit. Recruit and print up a badge for yourself and fix a small American flag pin to your lapel, grow a short afro or a beard, and head out to investigate.
First, interrogate your boyfriend’s brother in a room with a one-way mirror; if you don’t have a room with a one-way mirror, tear down the bathroom medicine cabinet and hold it in front of your face. When the brother won’t give up the goods, leave him to stew for a while. Receive alarming text messages. Work on those witty quips we talked about. Mail the condom to the crime lab; if there’s no crime lab in your neighborhood, store the rubber in a Ziploc baggie in the freezer next to your boyfriend’s wet underwear.
If he doesn’t return home that night because his boss called an emergency meeting at a Motel 6 on the thruway, take your boyfriend’s brother to Outback for dinner. Is your “rare” steak a bit too gray? They were trying to sneak medium-rare on your plate—good job, detective! You deserve a treat. Try the beast with two backs in the Outback restroom.
* * *
Question: Hello. I am 21-year-old living in a’bad (Gujarat-India) and doing job in an IT company. I am losing my hairs from last 4 to 5 year. Earlier I didn’t care for this so I am now suffering. My parents are also not taking this at so serious level b’cos they can’t afford the money for treatment. So if you have any solution then please reply me. Waiting for the suggestion. Thanx & Regards—Chander M.
Answer: Since money’s an issue, I can’t ask you to pick up my plane ticket to go visit my good friend Matthew McConaughey and say, “Bro, am I failing to launch or is that hair miraculously coming back?” Here are some tips for the cash-conscious balding hordes:
—Wear a hat. All the time. Become “that hat guy” who wears fedoras in the 21st century. People will soon look past any interesting features in your personality and remember you solely for your headgear.
—Cut open both cheeks with a sharp but sterile Bowie knife. Clean the wounds frequently but don’t allow them to heal for a week. The balding thing will seem like no big deal.
—Start a solidarity campaign and begin with your parents while they’re sleeping; they’ll find that treatment money pretty quick in the morning.
—Let your freak flag fly and grow it long. This was my uncle’s advice to a relative of ours in a similar predicament. The relative wondered, “Should I shave it all off?” And my uncle said he was sick of all these middle-age guys looking like they just signed up for the Marines. “Why not grow what you’ve got?” he wondered. This is the same uncle who raises Clydesdales, has a very long ponytail and a handlebar moustache, is a former Hell’s Angel who every day wears a leather vest, an Eagle feather in his fedora, and a pair of Gucci sunglasses he found on the sidewalk. Which isn’t to knock his advice but to point out he’s not one to care what people think of him in the first place.
The Non-Expert gets lots of mail, and most of it offers great deals on Viagra. Occasionally a sincere plea for help makes it through but we promptly forget about it and go on to read one of the eight messages we receive daily from sincere woeful teenagers asking for diet advice (all because of one stupid, easily Google-able column).
The Non-Expert cannot dine on diet questions alone.
Question: Am I an evil girlfriend for wanting to hire a detective to see if my boyfriend’s cheating on me? Do detectives even exist anymore?—Twana
Answer: Twana, the game is afoot. Private detectives are still around and in big numbers these days—in the U.S. alone there were about 43,000 snoops working in 2004—and though hiring one to investigate your boyfriend’s philandering may be sneaky, I don’t think it’s evil; evil I reserve for co-workers who guilt-trip you for taking your allotted vacation time.
But why pay for detection when you can pick up a detective novel or switch on the TV and learn the trade on your own? I’ve caught a few episodes of CSI and Without A Trace and read my fair share of private-eye books—the lessons to be gleaned are instructive:
—Everyone sees but few observe. Pay attention. When he’s occupied watching old videotapes of his ex-girlfriend, inspect your boyfriend’s physical appearance: Do any telltale blond hairs cling to his shirt cuffs? Do mud speckles on his left pant leg—but not his right—tell you he’s been standing on a different subway platform than normal? Be patient and inconspicuous. Even genius criminals eventually drop clues. All those odd Victoria’s Secret charges on his credit card might not be for his aunt’s birthday—have you considered he may have made those purchases to throw you off the trail?
—Run a miniature camera through your boyfriend’s blood vessels at high speed. If he objects, demand to know if he’s cheating on you. (Note: If you don’t have a miniature camera, you can threaten to use a normal-sized one.)
—As a general guideline, the guilty party is never whom you first suspect. Or always is. Or is the butler/secretary/pool boy. Or the widow/father/jealous sister/spurned flame. The one thing you can be certain of is that you didn’t commit the crime. Though you should interrogate yourself, just to be sure.
—Be witty when you feel a stage of the investigation is complete: “Someone should give that guy a hand” for the criminal with the severed wrist, or “the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” for the criminal who ran a camera through her lover’s abdomen and chest cavity. If no one’s around, write your quips down and share them with your boyfriend in bed—it’ll be a nice way to make up for your driving him into the arms of another woman.
—Pick up some Bluestar and spray down the house. Follow the color guide closely. Anything that glows blue was once stained with blood. Anything that glows green was once the site of a drum circle. Anything that smells of whore is where your dreams of marriage and children were destroyed. Anything that’s been sprayed should probably be dry-cleaned.
—You find a used condom in your boyfriend’s pants. Dim the lights around the house. Throw on a navy lab coat over a snappy pantsuit. Recruit and print up a badge for yourself and fix a small American flag pin to your lapel, grow a short afro or a beard, and head out to investigate.
First, interrogate your boyfriend’s brother in a room with a one-way mirror; if you don’t have a room with a one-way mirror, tear down the bathroom medicine cabinet and hold it in front of your face. When the brother won’t give up the goods, leave him to stew for a while. Receive alarming text messages. Work on those witty quips we talked about. Mail the condom to the crime lab; if there’s no crime lab in your neighborhood, store the rubber in a Ziploc baggie in the freezer next to your boyfriend’s wet underwear.
If he doesn’t return home that night because his boss called an emergency meeting at a Motel 6 on the thruway, take your boyfriend’s brother to Outback for dinner. Is your “rare” steak a bit too gray? They were trying to sneak medium-rare on your plate—good job, detective! You deserve a treat. Try the beast with two backs in the Outback restroom.
Question: Hello. I am 21-year-old living in a’bad (Gujarat-India) and doing job in an IT company. I am losing my hairs from last 4 to 5 year. Earlier I didn’t care for this so I am now suffering. My parents are also not taking this at so serious level b’cos they can’t afford the money for treatment. So if you have any solution then please reply me. Waiting for the suggestion. Thanx & Regards—Chander M.
Answer: Since money’s an issue, I can’t ask you to pick up my plane ticket to go visit my good friend Matthew McConaughey and say, “Bro, am I failing to launch or is that hair miraculously coming back?” Here are some tips for the cash-conscious balding hordes:
—Wear a hat. All the time. Become “that hat guy” who wears fedoras in the 21st century. People will soon look past any interesting features in your personality and remember you solely for your headgear.
—Cut open both cheeks with a sharp but sterile Bowie knife. Clean the wounds frequently but don’t allow them to heal for a week. The balding thing will seem like no big deal.
—Start a solidarity campaign and begin with your parents while they’re sleeping; they’ll find that treatment money pretty quick in the morning.
—Let your freak flag fly and grow it long. This was my uncle’s advice to a relative of ours in a similar predicament. The relative wondered, “Should I shave it all off?” And my uncle said he was sick of all these middle-age guys looking like they just signed up for the Marines. “Why not grow what you’ve got?” he wondered. This is the same uncle who raises Clydesdales, has a very long ponytail and a handlebar moustache, is a former Hell’s Angel who every day wears a leather vest, an Eagle feather in his fedora, and a pair of Gucci sunglasses he found on the sidewalk. Which isn’t to knock his advice but to point out he’s not one to care what people think of him in the first place.
—Published August 11, 2006
