The self-checkout line at Walmart was long, winding back on itself. I wasn’t in hurry, so I enjoyed a little people and cart watching.
A voice in the line next to me exclaimed, “Hey, I like that head of hair!” I looked up and saw a thick gray mop like mine. I returned the compliment, “I like yours, too.” He was about my age and height, in good shape, wearing a back brace, earphones in, chatting it up with other shoppers. His hair is pretty good, better than most guys our age, but mine is fuller and thicker.
If there’s one thing my family has a lot of, it’s hair. My dad lost most of his, but the rest of us inherited thick dark brown hair from my mom, which we passed along to our kids and many of the grandchildren.
The gray appeared in my thirties, salt and pepper through my forties, and took over by the time I was fifty. It hasn’t started thinning out yet.
As every barber and stylist tries to run a comb through my hair, they comment, “Wow, that’s thick.” It’s like a snow storm when they start thinning it out. When the haircut is done, I feel a couple of pounds lighter.
When my dermatologist is checking me out head to toe, she laughs when she runs her fingers along my scalp, “No problems up here. The sun can’t get through this!”
My new Walmart acquaintance told me his hair started going gray when he was sixteen. It started in the back, a circular patch on the back of his head. Mine uniformly appeared over time until I had that all-over head of hair and beard.
Waite for it... 