‘Quicksand Never Turned Out to Be the Huge Problem Childhood Cartoons Implied’ by Santino Prinzi

When the barber tells me during a third consecutive visit that my hair is thinning up top, I pay him with coppers and leave. No tip.

I let my hair grow out longer than I’ve ever grown it. My husband runs his fingers through it, grins. He lies that no one can tell I’m going bald when my hair’s longer. I stop shaving too, stop wearing hats, stop having my back waxed. My entire body becomes hair. It bulges through my clothes in thick tuffs, hangs over my eyes and mouth.

Bigfoot. Cousin It. I’m a BEAST in The Daily Mail, a meme on Facebook and Instagram. My husband leaves me citing pulling hair from between his teeth as unbecoming. They’re banging on my windows, camping outside my front door, chanting: the media, protestors, kink-chasers. Everyone wants a piece.

I want peace. The scissors cut the most and I shave the rest. I fill the bath with hair-removal cream and recline, scrubbing and rubbing the cream over my skin, listening to the radio as the chemicals sear. I run the shower and wash everything away, slide clothes over my newfound smoothness, and walk straight out the front door.

No photos, no interviews, no attention. No-one notices a bald man walking, and I wonder what the barber’s fuss was all about.

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