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.