The day my husband walked into the living room with a white, dome-shaped, shaved head, I knew my marriage was doomed.
He’d been slowly going bald for a few years and I think he finally snapped.
If he couldn’t have the luxurious thatch of his youth, he’d beat Mother Nature to it by taking his clippers to what was left. I was horrified.
You might conjure hunky visions of action stars such as Jason Statham. But, instead, he looked like he had one of those unforgiving swimming caps stretched over his head.
Of course, I did what any loyal wife would do and lied through my teeth: ‘Wow, you look great, darling!’
But we were not at the pipe and slippers stage of our marriage. Mark, a surveyor, was just 33. And we’d been married for a decade when, almost overnight, his hair started to get noticeably thinner.
The further it receded, the more he manoeuvred what was left to cover the gaps – not a combover, but not far off it.
Suddenly, I felt like I was married to an old man. How different it was when we first met at 22. Back then he ticked every box: tall, dark and handsome… with lots of thick hair.
Nicole spent nights awake panicking at the thought of being with Mark for the rest of her life
At our wedding a year later, his hair was shoulder-length – Michael Hutchence in his heyday. Throughout our 20s, that gorgeous, thick, wavy brown hair was one of the things I fancied most about Mark.
Neither of us wanted kids. We were so wrapped up in one another, we didn’t feel the need for anyone else in our life.
But when Mark turned 29, I found myself waking up each morning next to a man with the hair situation of a 60-year-old.
He started to lose it from each temple and at the crown. Keen to save face, he’d try to rearrange the remaining wisps into a weird fringe. My girlfriends would giggle about it, leaving me mortified.
But once he shaved it all off, things got worse. Our sex life took a hit. Before, Mark and I would make love three to four times a week. I enjoyed running my fingers through his hair, but now I found myself flinching when my hands skimmed over his scalp. Little wonder that our lovemaking soon dropped down to a couple of times a month.
Whenever he initiated sex, a voice inside me went: ‘Urgh!’ I couldn’t even fake my fun.
Of course, I appreciate this makes me sound very shallow. After all, looks are meant to be just one part of what sparks a connection between a couple. But Mark’s lack of hair became this unspoken ick that drove a wedge between us.
Soon, we began squabbling about minor things. Without the glue of strong sexual chemistry to hold us together, I began to realise how little we had in common.
We argued when I light-heartedly pointed out which male celebrities were rumoured to have had a hair transplant. Mark made it very clear he was not going down that path.
In one post-coital moment, he asked me outright if I was still attracted to him and I lied, swearing he was the same handsome man I married.
Yet without his hair, his forehead appeared larger. His sparkling blue eyes, without the backdrop of his hair, now appeared a tepid shade of blue-grey. And let’s not talk about his sticky-out ears.
I began to notice all the little annoying things he did, niggles I’d brush away in the past.
Now, I’d spend nights awake panicking at the thought of being with him for the rest of my life. Trying to rediscover our spark, I even read some female erotica featuring men with bald heads (hard to find!) so I could try to normalise it, but nothing worked.
Ironically, when he first reached for the clippers, I encouraged him. He’s Tom Selleck hairy everywhere else, so I reassured him that sometimes our bodies need a kickstart – a bit like turning a computer off and then on again. The hair on his head, I reasoned, might then grow back in full. (I know, it sounds daft now I say it.)
Only it didn’t. Over the following weeks, some started to reappear, but not at the temples or crown.
He then insisted on keeping all of it shaved for good. No discussions. Again, I became more aware that this lack of compromise or talking through our differences had become a feature in our relationship.
Still, I tried to focus on the positives, and would kiss his head while shuddering at the clammy feel of it.
I ended up having an affair with a work colleague, which I’m not proud of. My lover was half-Italian with a thick head of dark, wavy hair, and the sex was incredible. Finally, I didn’t have to fantasise about another man while making love (as I had with Mark).
The affair fizzled out after three months but its intensity made me realise once and for all that I no longer felt any attraction for my husband, and Mark and I split six months ago.
Before, I’d be the first to criticise a woman who left her other half over something so superficial, but here we are. Although, in my defence, it was more like a spell had been broken. Without lust, I couldn’t see us as compatible – and able to go the distance – in other areas.
I haven’t told my friends and family what went wrong though. That the catalyst for divorce was a haircut? They’d think I was mad.
But I simply will never fancy a man with nothing up top. And if there’s no desire, what kind of a life is that?
Names have been changed. As told to Samantha Brick
