â”What happened to your leg?â” James asked my friend. Steve, an amputee for many years, laughed.
  â”All kids are curious about it,â” 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.
â”This is my son, Bill,â” 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.
â”Youâ’re bald!â” I announced as if I alone knew that the emperor had no clothes.
â”Bill!â” 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.
â”Itâ’s genetic,â” she said. â”My father lost his hair at an early age.â” 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.
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Bill Bartlett lives in Belton with his wife, Sandi, and two sons.