“God, you’re going bald” he says.
“I have too many male hormones”
I attempt a witty reply.
But he’s right. I had noticed it before.
Old before my time.
Nineteen, and I can say “Goodbye hair”.
I run my hands through it.
And some of them curl in my fingers.
Detached from my head. A few less every day...
I look in the mirror and try to imagine me, with it gone.
As the front catches up with the back,
I remember my Grandfather, and all the times
I found his hair loss funny.
Justice I guess.
I look in the mirror.
I shall never again see Robert De Niro in it,
or anyone with lots of hair.
I shall have to buy a hat, or three.
“You could get a toupe” he says.
And pretend for ever that its real.
Until my girl, in the throes of her
passion, grabs at my hair.
And off it comes in her hands.
“God, you’re bald” she’ll say.
