Hair Today

It is yet possible to feel joy. The tranya helps.

It is yet possible to feel joy. The tranya helps.

You might think I’m losing my hair. You’re wrong. I’m surrounded by my hair. I can’t escape it. It haunts me like Rod Serling’s spooky possessed doll whose ghastly omnipresence in backlit doorways drives one to madness between commercial breaks; or like the tiny astronauts that harrass Agnes Moorehead in her extra-planetary shotgun shack until she has had enough and smashes their spaceship with a sledgehammer. You know. I can forget momentarily that my previously demure bald spot has gathered momentum and is now a Category IV hurricane of beige, can sporadically wave away concerns that I am headed for the tonsorial equivalent of Mr. Drucker’s thin, emasculating little fringe. Then I look around me. The hairs (a series of tormenting singulars) surround and horrify. They are gathered on my pillow every morning like a mocking army, twined inexplicably around the tines of my toothbrush, grinning soggily from between my cheerios, pasted like martyrs against the steam-moistened bathroom walls. I am not losing my hair. My world is a Lost and Found of my cast-off hair.

Your Haaaaaiiirrr!!!

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