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Little by little, starting at age 18, I have lost my hair. Today, at 56, I am officially bald, though I still can't believe it. I continue to maintain that, one day, I am going to re-grow my hair or, rather, it will show up again on its own, and I will look into the mirror, utterly amazed by my own full head of glistening, healthy hair.

Aging is dying in slow motion, though we do our best not to think of it in these stark terms. I defer old age to a dot on the horizon in the distant future. Death itself is beyond the horizon, unseen. How the mind enthusiastically embraces self-deception. Yet, as my grandmother would say every so often, "the age is there," meaning it was inescapable, despite her diligent efforts to visit the beauty salon weekly in hopes of fighting back the ravages of time. Thirty years later, I understand, I empathize.

from a certain angle
my shadow casts
a full head of hair