Surely someone would have said something by now. Surely I would have noticed. But people are nice, and often too nice, so a thing like this might slip through the cracks. They may push it down.
A spot. A balding spot. Right there at the back of my head, right where they are on all the other heads of all the other sad men. I spent so much time worrying about whether I was losing hair from the front I didn't even think to check for the back. I didn't think about the back at all. Hoisted!
I grab my wife's hand mirror and lock the bathroom door quietly, so as not to arouse suspicion. I stand in front of the vanity, hold the mirror in back, creating a most unfortunate infinity. Spots and spots wind on forever, forming a trail, mocking my heredity, leading to my shame.
Perhaps it isn't really there. Perhaps it is only the place where my hair parts, the place where the hairs naturally split up and go their separate ways. Quickly I part other sections, getting them in the mirror as best I can. But none of them, no, none of them look as thinned as that damned spot.
Did she know? Had she noticed? Was she, too, trying to tell herself it wasn't there? Was she looking for a way to break it to me? Was she wondering why I hadn't said something about it? Was she really that blind? Did she care about me at all?
I put the mirror back in the drawer, the brush and hair ties on top as they were. I am going about this as if I've done something wrong. And though, of course, I had no choice in the matter, I can't help feeling it. I can't feel any other way.
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