Scenes From A (Receding) Marriage

We celebrated our seventh anniversary yesterday. On her Facebook page, Erin wrote, “Seven years ago today my ‘something blue’ was royal blue eyeliner. Thanks, Ben Vore, for making me your wife in spite of some serious errors in judgement on my part. You’re a real stand-up guy.” The last line is one of our little in-jokes, from a terrible movie, The International, in which Naomi Watts, who is supposed to be a no-nonsense, tough-as-nails Manhattan attorney, says, with all the venom-spitting ferocity she can muster, “You’re a real stand-up guy, Artie!” (The same movie has Clive Owen say, to a man who has just been fatally shot, “Don’t you f—in’ die on me!” We laugh at this line for three reasons. 1) Because the man clearly will die on Clive Owen. 2) Because it’s not like he has a choice in the matter — he’s been fatally shot. And 3) Because “Don’t you die on me” apparently wouldn’t have sufficed. The superfluous effin’ really conveys more gravitas.)

In response to Erin’s post, Ben added his own: “Seven years ago today I had a full head of hair. Erin Beers Vore married me that day. About six years and ten months ago today, my hair began falling out. Thanks, Erin, for making me your husband. You’ve always had great timing.”

We kid you not, dear reader. It was instantaneous. The minute we said “I do,” Ben’s hair started uprooting itself, going West young man, or in this case South, migrating to his shoulders first and then chest, with patches setting up camp on his back soon thereafter. At first he bemoaned this quick, ruthless descent into baldness. But now, wizened by age and experience, he finds himself grateful: That his body held out as long as it did, just long enough to snatch a mate, the way male gibbons act all sensitive and caring until the ring is on the finger, and then, boom, they’re off swinging like idiots through the trees, puffing out their gullets like basketballs and scratching their privates like there’s no tomorrow. This guy knows.


Anyway, we thought it’d be fun to document the migration of Ben’s hair over the course of our marriage. Well, one of us thought it’d be fun. Enjoy!


The night we got engaged. December 19, 2003.


Italy, 2004. Still going strong!


One more so we can savor this before it goes downhill.


Our wedding. August 14, 2004. Ben’s hairline breathes a huge sigh of relief.


Ben, the morning of August 15, 2004.


Year three. Maine, 2007. What’s the hat hiding? (Or, not hiding?)


Year four. Cat’s out of the bag.


Year five. The Snuggie could not mask a receding hairline.


Nic flaunts his gorgeous mane.


Year six. Sam arrives.


“Good one, dad! Tell me another fairy tale about when you had hair!”


“You’re a real stand-up gibbon, gibbon.”


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