My forehead grows larger with each passing year. Since my late twenties hair has been retreating from my skull as if it were embarrassed to be seen on my head and needed to hide in shame. Perhaps it’s afraid of something, although what that might be I couldn’t tell you.
This morning I was looking at myself in the mirror when I noticed a solitary hair, sticking straight out from my forehead. That’s odd, I thought. It looked really out of place just sitting there all by itself. I reached up to pluck it out, but then paused. I swear it was looking at me with sad puppy dog-like eyes, silently pleading with me to let it live.
“Don’t look at me like that!” I snapped loudly. “You’re making me look like a lopsided Alfalfa!”
I heard a mumbled query from the bedroom. My shouting had woken TR. “Sorry, dear. Nothing to worry about. Just go back to sleep.”
I turned back to the hair, and reached up once more, poised to remove it. It was now looking at me with stubborn reproach, as if to say, “After every other hair on your forehead has deserted you, I was the one who stayed. And this is how you treat me?”
Color rose to my cheeks. I felt ashamed of myself. How could I – after the loyalty that this one hair had shown to my head – even consider terminating its existence? I looked at the hair apologetically.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. You deserve better than this.” I sighed as I lowered my hand. “You have held on longer than any other hair. When all the other hairs retreated from fear or shame, you and you alone stayed firm. You deserve to live! And by golly, I’m going to make sure that you do! Soldier on little hair!”
Yes. Soldier on.
