So,

I'm standing at the bathroom sink brushing my golden locks.  I always start at the hairline in front and brush straight back for many, many strokes.  Great for getting rid a bed-head hair-do.

Frankie:  "What ya gonna write about for your blog today?"
Me:  "I think, Pinky Marie Washington, Jefferson, Jackson."
Frankie:  "Who?      HOLY CRAP!  HOLY CRAP!  HOLY CRAP!"

I whip around in terror, "What's the matter with you?", I demand.  My heart is racing.

Frankie:  "You're going bald."
Me:  "I am not."
Frankie:  "Oh, but you are."
Me:  I'm not!"
Frankie "Oh, yeah," she firmly states, "Oh, yeah, you are."
Me:  "I most definitely AM not!"

Frankie whips me around so I'm once more facing the mirror.  Standing behind me, and using both hands, she firmly pulls back all the hair across my forehead.  "Yes, said she, you are."

I'm forced to actually look at myself, not my hair and lo and behold, there...is my father...OMG, OMG, OMG.

My breath is faster, my heart is pounding, I feel a panic attack coming. 

"No, no, noooooooooooo!"

I had already accepted my hair was thinning and could live with that.  What can a Rambling Old Woman expect after decades of home permanents and hair colorings.

I feel faint.

I must have wobbled a bit, because Frankie was leading me to the edge of the bed.  She's waving her hands up and down in front of my face.

Frankie:  "Hey.  Dude.  I'm sorry, you gonna be okay."

I regained my composure.  "Oh, Frankie...you're right...I just saw my dad in the mirror. As he aged his hair line receded also.  Not at the temples, but straight across his forehead...I'm doing the same thing...I always thought we aged with our mother's traits, not our father's." 

(Insert long, lingering moan here.)

Frankie:  "Hey, you could always do the comb-over trick, and look like Donald Trump."

For some reason Frankie seemed to think this was funny and started laughing so hard she flopped onto the bed unable to control herself.

Me:  "What the heck?"  I stand, arms akimbo.  "A friend's supposed to be supportive and sympathetic in times of trauma.  I'm going bald, damn it.  I'm, I'm..."
Frankie:  "Don't you say it, don't you dare say it."
Me:  "Old."

 Except for us breathing there is no sound in the room. 

Frankie:  "Get a grip!"  She is shaking me by the shoulders. (quite violently I might add).  "It ain't like baldness is gonna kill ya."
Me:  "Frankie, I swear if you're thinking about telling me some platitude filled tale about how things could be worse I'm going to kill you."

Except for us breathing there is no sound in the room.
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Frankie:  "Hey! I've got an idea, let's go check out wigs on the 'net'."

Well what do you know, Frankie finally had a good one.