The Restoration - Part II

-- Note: For Part I of this two part series, click here --


When it comes to restoration, it's safe to say that Rogaine is no Joseph Smith. It's also safe to say the apostasy that strikes the top of my head isn't going to be ending anytime soon. The results tell a sad story (make that the lack of results): Despite fertilizing my head with Rogaine for over a year now, I still haven't managed to grow anything (and I even go to an agriculture school).

It was worth a shot. And about a hundred bucks, according to my latest credit card statement. It's hard to believe, though, that I would be a third of the way to a PS3 if I weren't so worried with how the top of my head looks (and you thought accountants didn't care about image -- well we have feelings too). Still, there's reason to be concerned.

Perhaps you've heard of Jerry Seinfeld? He had a friend named George Costanza. In their early days the two carried similar lives, growing up and attending school together. Despite being best friends, their paths diverged in their post-grad years. Following college, Jerry developed a succesful career filled with  celebrity, money and women. Meanwhile George's formidable years were often spent unemployed, companion-less, at his parent's abode.

What was the difference between the two? One had hair, the other did not.

Simple. As. That.

Having great hair is critical to success in life. It's the source behind Bob Costas' strength, the pillar of David Hasslehoff's power, and the reason behind George's ruin.

No wonder he saved so may lives

I bring this up because I am on the verge of playing the George Costanza to Nathan Ballard's Jerry Seinfeld. The two of us pushed through high school and college as betrothed chaps living identical lifestyles. As Nathan and I completed our undergrads, however, it became apparent that our lives were heading in different directions.

Nathan had a girlfriend. And a job.

I had neither.

Such are the fruits of having (or not having) great hair. What else could be responsible for Nathan's success and my failure (beside skin color)?

But you know what the worst part of this story is?

I did this to myself.

According to Wikipedia --the 8th most trafficked site on the net, mind you -- balding comes from two sources: genetics or extreme stress. Childbirth is another contributor, but my mom says that my arrival was rather uneventful. You can cross genetics off the list as well, as my mom's dad is still sprouting hair at an advanced age. Stress, then, has to be the problem behind my, uh, problem. That said, the majority of my life is experienced in a calm fashion. I don't have a lot of bills (rent and pizza), I have no girlfriend, my colon has been regular ...

Then there's the sports world. My love is spent on the Cougars and the Jazz. And those two teams reward my heart the only way they know how -- by giving it stress. Boy, do they ever do a good job of it. Year after year, these teams have managed to provide me with anxiety, respiratory problems, everything but reliable hair growth. Thus my one true love -- sports -- has eliminated my other love -- hair.

I'm reminded of the words of one Professor Trelawney.

"And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives."

Sure she was speaking of Voldemort and Harry Potter, but she may as well been speaking of my hair-sport relationship.

It's a shame because of all people, I know the worth of a well-done do. It is no surprise that Jimmer Fredette's career year has coincided with the best haircut of his BYU tenure. Likewise no one was stunned to hear that 934 Harry Potter fans committed suicide after Emma Watson chopped her Hermione's. Such is the power of hair.

And you thought Dumbledore's death was a tragedy

A person's most valuable asset, lusty locks can be the difference maker in the crusade for jobs, girl(s), and happiness. How curious, then, that the three things I'm trying to grasp require the one thing I can't hang onto.

I've been told at times to get over it, to embrace the falling follicles. Increased aerodynamacy and a distinguished appearance are frequently cited as compensation for having the look of an ancient. While those two traits are nice consolation prizes, I'd still rather keep my locks, because hair is simply too valuable, it's usefulness too apparent.

That's what makes this particular hair loss so hard to swallow (not that hair is easy to swallow under other circumstances). Ever since I was a little kid, people have been telling me to use my head. Maybe they were talking about the top of it, maybe not. Either way now that I need it most, it may be too late.

The Hanceys

I've been waiting a long time for 2011 to come along. 15 years in fact, ever since the fateful day when I first learned that eleven was my lucky number. But before we get ahead of ourselves looking into what could happen in this long awaited year we must first hand out hardware to the spectacular performers of 2010. And lest you think these awards are unnecessary or trivial, keep in mind that the Eclipse Awards (no relation to Twilight) just bestowed a steed named Zenyatta the Horse of the Year award. With that thought in mind and with further ado out of mind...

(Disclaimer: If you're name isn't Zac Roner, Dallin Webb, Ian Wright, The Squire Family, Jackie or Anna Johnson, Caitlyn Ellis, Hayley Dearden, Ryan Pearspn,  Nicole/Nathan/Bryan, or Bunna Veth this post may not be worth your time)


Winner of the Bob Ross award for most majestic hair follicles - Ryan Pearson (soon to be renamed the Ryan Pearson award)

Winner of the Jackie Chiles award for most enjoyable voice to listen to - Anna Johnson (I would marry those tones)

The Buzz Lightyear award for extreme number of gadgets - Jackie Johnson, owner of an iPod, a kindle, a smart phone, three computers, a DVD player and a sewing machine (I would marry those accessories)

The Paul Millsap award for most improved athlete - Zac Roner

The Yao Ming award for a promising career derailed by injury - Zac Roner (Dislocated knee cap, ligament sprain, broken back and was recently fired, to add insult to you-know-what)

The Alex Trebek award for knowing a lot of stuff and looking great with a mustache - Caitlyn Ellis (Books. Movies. Drinks. Boys. Girls. Cars. Road trips. Tennis. Shakespeare. Riverton. She knows it all)

You will do yourself a large favor if you click this link to see the uncut version of Trebek's picture

The Buffy the Vampire Slayer award for proficiency with weapons - Ian Wright

The Cosmo Kramer award for unemployed success story - Nathan Ballard (Living the high life since June 2009)

The Michael Jordan award for switching careers - Bunna Veth (In computer science we trust)

The Albus Dumbledore award for leading an army of children - Nicole Blietschau

The Morgan Grimes award for best facial hair and most loyal comrade - Climps the cat

The Christopher Columbus award for discovering foreign lands - The Squire Family (No matter how cold it gets in Idaho, do not accept any blankets from anyone)

The John Stockton award for most provocative clothing - Still belongs to John Stockton, unfortunately

The man knew how to show skin

The Ross and Rachel award for best couple - Bryan Farnsworth and WalMart

The Bryan Farnsworth award for most dapperly dressed individual - Hayley Dearden (She also has an uncanny memory for clothes people wore from years past as well ...)

The Tiger Woods award for greatest collapse -Tie: The BYU football team and Spencer's psyche after watching the collapse of the BYU football team.

The Mr. Miagi award for best hairless mentor - Dallin Webb (I will soon join you in baldness. If only I could join you in womanizing as well.)

The Lazarus award for returning from the dead - BYU football team (My love of Bronco has never been stronger)

The Lewis and Clark award for non-gay best friends - Spencer and Nathan (Take Bronco out of the picutre and that first part might change)

And finally the winner of the Idaho award for irrelevance - Spencer's blog

The Fraudulent Dater

It could be you. Or your friend. Your sister. Maybe your roomate. I suppose your mom could be a possibility too, under the right circumstances. Only time will tell. That and the depth of my cunning, of course. Not to mention how easily you can be deceived. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Just know you've been warned. I'm out to date you. Or anyone you know. And this time, I'm playing for keeps.

---

As you can tell I'm getting worried, probably a smidge desperate, and certainly a bit moist around the armpits. I'm on a two-clock timer to find a wife. My enemies? Time and hair. Both are receding, and once one expires, it's game over for the Uruguayan Lion. Fortunatley, I've studied accounting for the last few years, which besides making me appear cool, has provided me with instruction on how to commit fraud. The essence of fraud is this: companies want money from investors. To get money, they have to be attractive. Obviously not all companies are good enough to merit these investments. As a result, a portion of these "ugly" businesses falsify their appearance to entice investors to pour funds into their plans. Simply stated, they project a false image of themselves to get what they want.

Finally I've learned something in school that I can apply to my life.

I feel no shame in admitting that I have falsified my appearance in an attempt to woo female investors. It's true, I've dabbled in dating fraud, and will continue to do so until a girl decides to invest in me. I started off with lower class fraud like lying about my age or year in school to appear younger (you'd think being old enough to have an IRA would attract girls, but you'd be wrong). I then vaulted into appearance fraud by waxing my chest so that future datees wouldn't realize I was half-bear.

Her: "Your arms and legs are so hairy. It's weird that your chest is pelt free."
Me: "Uh, yeah, bizzare huh ... so how bout the Jazz?"

Next was an attempt to develop a six pack to hide the fact that I have no other muscular features. To cover up my accounting personality I've employed a pair of gurus to tell me what girls want to hear, see, and feel from their male counterparts. Unfortunately, due to fear of dentists I failed to capitalize on one of the better tricks, that of the teeth-straightening braces. But I have done a good job of consistently shaving which keeps women from knowing I am Sharif Hakeem's cousin twice removed.

Someday this baby will brag that he was held by a terrorist

Of course, none of my actions have been as fraud-filled as the use of Rogaine. Yeah, you can marry me, but you should know the only thing keeping me from becoming George Costanza is a bottle of minoxidal topical solution.


You should also know that I'm fine with being a fraudulent dater. I don't see a problem with breaking one commandment (honesty) to bring about another (procreation). Adam and Eve did the same thing way back in the year zero.  Disobedience led them to making babies; surely lying can do the same for me.

By the way, did I mention that I can bench 245 pounds?

Now a note to my female readers - Understand that I'm not the only fraudster roaming the country side. At some point in your single days you are likely to be targeted by an artificial male. But never fear, the US Postal Service is here, with eight easy tips on how to detect fraudulent practices.

There you have it. If your suitor is overly friendly, doesn't have the look of a real man, promises too high of returns, or something about him just doesn't feel right then know you are being duped. I think it's only fair that girls be aware of these signs. Unlike deer, they deserve a fair chance when being hunted.

Lucky for me, I can still fly under the radar as almost none of these signs can be linked to yours truly. Sure some smart girl might realize my hairless chest doesn't "feel right" when compared to my hairy elsewhere, but I certainly don't promise high returns, nor am I very friendly. And even when I'm at my Enron-ic dating best, I'm certain there isn't any girl, in any place, in any time zone, that is ever going to be suspicious that I'm too good to be true.

But who cares?

It worked for Enron, right?

Driven to Serve

"Repulsion is our business. And business is good."

-Jeff and Lester, from NBC's Chuck

---

Statistics are an interesting thing. They can be manipulated. They can be used out of context. They can be telling. And in my case they are telling. Very, very, telling. Here's the stat:

Six of the last six girls I have dated or gone on dates with have all left to go on missions shortly after interacting with me.

What exactly does that mean? It means that after having had a date or two with me, these girls decided they no longer desired male companionship. I give such a bad impression of the male gender that they decide to give up men altogether and see only girls for 18 months.

"You know, Spence, I had a great time on our date and everything but I just think I'd rather have nothing to do with guys for the next year and a half. But it doesn't have anything to do with you so don't worry."

Oh, I'm not worried. I'm petrified. I'm driving girls away at an astonishing rate. Six of the last six? Has such a feat ever been previously accomplished? Surely no one else out there is repurposing girls as well as I am.

"The name's Hansen. Spencer Hansen. I have a license to kill girl's hormones."

I can't explain how this is happening, but I know these girls can.

Thus, under disguise, I interviewed one of these former male-likers. I cut out the majority of the interview and left just the good parts.

Disguised Me: So he tried to impress you with magic tricks?

Her: It was eembarrassing

Me: His hair was receding, true?

Her: He looked like a mix between a bald Bin Laden and a wolfman.

Me: So you found him unattractive?
Her: Correct.
Me: To the point that the thought of being with any man made you want to vomit?
Her: Correct.

When it comes to girls, I leave them no other option.

---

Jeff and Lester my friends, if you ever need a third, you know who to call.

One Third Through

The first time we broke up, the red-headed lover didn't take it too well (neither did I, but this story isn't about me. Well, at least not directly). And girls, when heartbroken, tend to seek comfort in one (or more) of the following devices:

a) Eating ice cream
b) Burning pictures of their old fling
c) Reading Twilight

The red-headed lover, to her everlasting credit, pursued another route in search of comfort: she watched hours and hours of old-school BYU football clips on youtube and Byu-Tv.

If ever there were a sign that me and Brooke were supposed to be together, that was it.

And somehow I still blew it.

How I ever let go of a girl like that (possibly the only girl like that) is beyond my ability to comprehend.
Yes, yes,you don't have to tell me. I know. I'm an idiot.

So what if we'd rather kiss the cougar statue outside LaVell's stadium than each other?

I let go of a girl that a) is hot, and b) likes BYU football as much as I do. Those are just two of the many things I miss about her (see Brooke's Blog for further detail).

She's been gone six months, as of today. Incredibly, as her time away has increased, so too have my feelings for her. Sadly, and rightly, the same can't be said for her.

I suppose there is good news, though. At least I still have 365 days to figure out a way to win her back once she returns.

I'm open to suggestions. Appearance improvement, date ideas, charming jokes, the ability to enjoy chick flicks. I'll take advice on practically anything.  Just don't suggest hair regrowth formula.

Already tried it.

The Restoration - Part I

My mantra for the majority of my life has been constant:

Quit.

At age 6 I quit picking my nose.

At age 12 I quit on my dream of playing for the Jazz.

At age 22 I quit believeing I could date Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

I'm known for surrendering. Yielding. Raising the white flag. Being pushed over.

That was then. This is now. Today I fight back.

---

My hair is dieing - it has been for some time now. No hair, of course, equals no good. It means no girl. It means no friends. It means no job (Desnews). As my hair falls to the ground, my hopes of all happiness go with it. Until recently, I had accepted this fact. I'd given in to genetics. Why fight it? Without marriage I could still make the terrestrial kingdom, right? Worse things could happen. Plus, I had already based my life actions on the example of George Costanza. Why not adopt his most recognizable feature as well? And yet ...

And yet each time I restocked on toothpaste or deoderant, a rouge hygiene product would grab my eyes:

Rogaine, the magic hair restorer.

Fifty bucks was too pricey an investment for me. After all, I had a girlfriend. If things got worse, I could just get married and deteriorate with exaltation ensured. I chose to leave things in nature's hands.

Bad choice. The girlfriend left. The landscape worsened. The mocking increased. Whisps, alone, remained of a once proud scalp. And then a change happened. Not with my hair, but with my mentality. Something snapped. I became sick of surrendering. It was time to quit quitting. I decided to fight back. Knowing that my hair was my livelihood, I purchased the restorer.

The danger is great. Rogaine claims to regrow hair by killing off the current stragglers to make room for new hairs to take their place. Thus in a worst case scenario, my few remainers are killed off and no regrowth occurs.

Gulp.

Well, here goes nothing.

Er, I mean, here goes everything.

No hair, no charm - no girl

Of course I panicked.

I had reason to.

There was hair on my shirt.

Hair from my head.

It was falling out.

Lots of missionaries talked about the city named Diego de Almagro. They talked about how small the town was, about how awful the food tasted. No one talked about the sun, though, how it strikes the town so hard that plants combust and smoke themselves, sweat evaporates before it makes it half way down your face, and hair gives up and falls from heads every day. Looking back I wish I could have seen the signs. Then maybe I could've prevented the tragedy.

The first sign was the hat. "We really get to wear these?" I asked my companion. I loved the hat. Wearing it I became half Indiana Jones, half 1940’s journalist. If only I had known that the hat was worn in an attempt to shield the sun and slow the balding. If I had realized it I could have acted so much sooner ...

The second sign were the hair care products. "Why does a male missionary have Pantene Pro-V conditioner and three types of moisturizing gel?" I wondered. I thought about it and concluded that Elder Burger was a weirdo. I didn't even consider that my companion was combating the loss of his hair. How could I not see it?

The third sign was the water. "Of course you can't drink it," my companion said. "The stuff carries so many minerals it'll poison your innards in an instant." Imagine then what it does to hair. For the first time in my life, I would have been better off not bathing. But I ignored the sign, and let my scalp soak up its daily dose of minerals courtesy of the local mine. I was a fool, and I paid for it.

The final sign was the hair itself. "Man, how many days in a row have you worn that shirt?" my companion asked. "It’s looking gross, there’s hair all over it." My heart shivered - this was a clean shirt. I had been wearing it for less than nine minutes when my companion asked the question. I didn't miss this sign. I read it clearly. My hair was falling out. I was going bald.

I, the hairy wonder of the world, was going bald. The Uruguayan Lion. The werewolf. The Man-beast. The kid who had a mustache at his baptism (see photo). The boy who was voted “Most Hairy” from Grangers’ class of 2004. Going bald? You won't be surprised to know that I cried that day.

The dictionary tells the dirty secrets about being bald.

bald (bÔld), adj. 1. lacking detail; bare; plain; 2. destitute of natural growth, see desert, wasteland

Girls don't dig a guy that is lacking detail, that is plain or bare, a guy whose head reminds them of a wasteland. Knowing this information, I fought the baldness.

In the two years that have passed since that day in Diego, I've given all I have to restore my hair to the glory I once new. Conditioners. Hair gels. Hats. Shower caps. Chest hair implants. I've tried it all. Sadly, both you and I know that my tactics aren't working. If they were I'd be with a girl right now instead of sitting at my computer blogging on Friday night, wouldn’t I?