Wednesday, January 7, 2009

both of her hands on my skull

What amazes me more than the huge clumps my hair comes out in is the fact that I still have so much of it. Irene teases me. And she teases me more, predicting the final apocalypse of my follicles.


She teases me in the mirror, placing both of her hands on my skull and shouting, "Voila! Vaporized! Like how that looks, Mr.?" Her colored nails, manicured into fine ovals, stand in place of the liver spots that are surely there.


Irene teases me in Photoshop, modifying the portrait from my work ID by scalping the top part and wrapping a train of mink around the sides. The awkwardness of my expression spoils any sophistication you might expect.


She even teases me in ways I honestly can't make heads of tails of, "Baldy, baldy two by four," or "Bald, bald, bald, bald, bald-a-ran." I groan often and sulk off to the other side of the apartment.


Don't tell her this, but I'm falling out of love with Irene.


As self-conscious as I get, as self-conscious as she makes me, I never wear a hat when I go out. I let the elements attack my head; blazing heat in summer, bitter cold in winter. One of these things, I feel certain, has to have some impact. Either my hair will be frozen in time, cryogenicly, or it will burn into a swoopy lump and be preserved forever, full as it is today, full as it is right now.


So, I get alternately battered by the sun and my body heat escapes like mournful ghosts from my pate. I run colder than cold and hotter than hot. I get frostbite. I get sunburn. I let myself get these things.


It's uncomfortable, but worth it. Keeps me from doing anything from rash.

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