The Bald Truth

   ”What happened to your leg?” James asked my friend. Steve, an amputee for many years, laughed.

   “All kids are curious about it,” he told me, but I was still mortified. I want my kids to be honest, but courteous, and I thought back to my preschool years when I embarrassed my mother.

    “This is my son, Bill,” Mom said, introducing me to a tall man. I was used to people towering over me, but his head caught my attention. He wore a neatly-trimmed gray fringe on each side, but the center of his crown was only skin. I had heard of bald people before and seen them on TV, but this was my first direct encounter with a bald man and it fascinated me. The concept of baldness and the word connected in my mind and I summoned all of my fledgling communication skills.

    “You’re bald!” I announced as if I alone knew that the emperor had no clothes.

    “Bill!” Mom admonished, but the tall man just laughed. I had sealed my fate.

Immediately after high school, my hair fled and I had to clear handfuls from the shower just to allow it to drain. Finally, the drain ran freely. I had no more hair to lose and I was as bald as the man that I had so rudely accosted. Saddened by my loss, I grew morose and Mom tried in vain to comfort me.

    “It’s genetic,” she said. “My father lost his hair at an early age.” Intellectually, I know that she was right, but one thing still troubles me. I have one solitary hair that grows where my hairline used to be. That one lonely hair, I am convinced, exists for just two reasons: to mock me and to remind me of my rudeness as a child.

Bill Bartlett lives in Belton with his wife, Sandi, and two sons.