“You’re going bald,” my friend announced. He said it with no small measure of disgust – as if it was some moral failing.At first, I blamed the balding on a bad haircut. The barber should never have used the shears on top. He cut too close to the scalp, which took a long time to grow back. Just shave it off, someone else said, but I’d seen a few pictures of myself from behind; large craniums don’t do well with shaving. In my case, bald is not beautiful.Hair doesn’t stand straight up.
Eventually, dignity was abandoned, and I used brown keratin powder and hair spray to cover the bald patch. The powder looked like crumbled flakes of brown Parmesan cheese. When I woke up, my pillows would have stains, and beads of brown sweat ran down my forehead when I worked out. He methodically ran me through my day: the surgery would happen on the third floor, I’d be taken back to my hotel, and then to the airport to fly home the following day. It was high-tech; they had done thousands of them. Did I bring cash? US$2,000, please.
I spent that day staring at a white and brown speckled tile floor, listening to my technician flirt in Turkish with the pretty nurse. Stab, stab, stab, stab. Painkiller, please. Don’t be a baby. Stab. Stab. Stab.A lady came in with a bucket to clean up the blood.
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