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I have cold feet.  Not the metaphorical kind, although I may have lived a life of quiet timidity.  No, my feet are actually cold.  I am sitting in the study at midnight without socks, shoes or slippers, and even this solar oven of a flat can get cold at the dead of night in mid-winter.

I rub my feet and ankles, partly to warm them up, but also with a more surreptitious motive – I want to see if there is any sign of prickliness, stubble, growth, renewal.  I am six months into a fool’s quest – without even a millimeter of reward.

I consider my legs to be satisfactorily hirsute.  Even my toes, once upon a time, had more than adequate thatch.  Enough to confirm my masculinity should anyone sneak a look.  But these days my feet and ankles are quite devoid of hair: clean as a whistle, soft as a baby’s bottom, bald to the nth degree.

 I first noticed this happening as I approached my half century.  Too many decades of shoes and socks for ten or sixteen hours a day have wiped the slate quite clean.  When I wear shorts and sandals there is a very clear sock line, and I won’t have it.  I will undraw the line.  I am fit and healthy.  My hair has been grey for so long that everyone thinks I was born like this.  My naked ankles are the clearest sign that I am “getting on”.   I intend to take that sign down.  

Some years ago, I said to my wife: “When I retire, I am going to grow back the hair on my ankles.” I know that quizzical silence, so it is not an ambition that I talk about much.  At the time I had visions of being barefoot on the beach, walking a dog some place where it’s always warm and no-one expects you to wear socks, even when you are out for dinner. That didn’t quite happen.  I do spend lots more time at home, but I don’t consider myself retired. I just don’t have a job:  - apparently, it’s called being self-employed.  I just wish I paid myself better.

Whatever the drawbacks, it does mean I can spend a lot of time at home sans socks.  So, I decided, now is the time!  I opened a secret folder called the Ankle Hair Chronicles and make a daily entry of what I have done to make my hair grow.  I sit in the sun at least an hour a day, feet exposed: it’s good for vitamin D and most plants, so I reckon there must be something to it.  I read everything I can about baldness, (might be too much testosterone- not my problem), rub various lotions nightly on my ankles and haunt high-end men’s hairdressers, checking whether they have any new hair restorers on their shelves.  It gets me a lot of funny looks, because I have an impressive mop of grey hair.  “Oh, it’s not for me, it’s for a friend!” I wink conspiratorially. That gets me a lot of knowing nods, but nothing - yet- that works on my ankles.  Next time I think I will just tell them if they want to see where I am bald, I will show them, right there in their shop.  I bet no-one will take me up on it.

Talking about strange looks.  I do leave the flat from time to time to walk to the mall.  People look at you funny when the wind chill is below freezing, and you are wearing sandals and shirtsleeves.  Well one can hardly wear sandals and a thick winter coat – that would look daft.  As I stroll along, trying to whistle nonchalantly through frozen lips there certainly are some double takes, heads shake, and a few pitying looks.  This is mainly from women older than I am who probably feel that they should offer me a cup of coffee, and perhaps a slice of anchovy toast at the Wimpy in the mall.  Men just look away - worried that I might ask them for a couple of rand so I can buy my own cup of coffee - or a pair of socks.   C’mon guys, I may be self-employed, but I’m not that hard up – I’m just trying to give my ankles maximum airtime.

I’m not giving up on this.  I’m hoping I can report a little fuzz any day now.  If not, I will just have to start a business selling ankle wigs – I’m sure there’s a market out there.

Cedric de Beer September 2019