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.
Published by jef
The blood thrumming around the still-point of this light headache can be traced back to the first rain. That is, our blood just sort of drifts, like smoke, through time; with stops in the Cambrian, the Renaissance and so on. It’s an impenetrable, infinitely-layered heap of unknowing. Okay? (sighs) Yeah The World (as it’s called) is a hopeless lucid dream, but not the kind where you can leap off a building, flap your arms and take joyous id-flight. It’s the kind where you show up for just long enough to see yourself in a mirror and Know that You are Here. That apparently necessary bit of business having been addressed, thermodynamics or some other such fancy idiot enters with a tea towel over its forearm, takes you politely by the gnarled elbow and ushers you back into the soil, where the mostly irritating Circle of Life awaits to make of you a tree, then a shoebox, then wet mush in a landfill again. Bring me my slippers! Oh…never mind. But I’m not here to philosophishizzle. We’re doomed animals at the momentary top of a food chain of no eternal consequence. It feels like. That’s not meant to be a downer. Bacharach sprang from the Ur-ooze, so that recommends the place. Let us celebrate our moment in the hum de dum dum de dum de de de dum dum. View all posts by jef