by Paris Green


You know how it is. You get to 30 with a full head of hair, a mountain of debt, and no plan for the rest of your life, a child in an adult body, and you begin to feel the icy hand of death closing in. But let me tell you, I'm on easy street now my bald spot is coming in.

I just noticed in the desperate shower I take in the monthly water de-outage that my hair was falling out in strands, probably stress, maybe genetics, and I about jumped for joy. I cancelled my Amazon shampoo orders, I sold all the ornamental combs from my bitch-ass suitors, I cancelled a year's worth of weekly haircuts I bought in advance, and I've got a fat stack of cash sitting in my wallet. On top of that, the social stigma associated with struggling with thinning hair as a woman is going to get in the way of constant orgies - or even just casual sex with strangers; this will go a long way to repairing my tempestuous marriage, and accentuate my street cred among punks and wastoids.

I can't wait for more hair to fall out, and I'm not ashamed to admit I've taken steps to make the problem worse. I've taken to sleeping in a special rig that rests as much weight as possible on my scalp, the better to stress out the follicles. I've been antagonizing every witch I run across. I've even taken to rubbing piss on my arms in the hopes of attracting some of the hair from my head onto them - I know that's just an old wives' tale, but I feel like I need all the help I can get.

I'm going to invest some of the money I've saved giving up on my hair on wigs, but not human wigs - wigs for a mangy horse or dog, not meant to pass muster as human hair. I plan to change my name to a new, more bald name as soon as it's appropriate. Susan, maybe, or Hatred, or Carol. I look forward to a long, happy life smoking cigars and spitting at children.

Cursed at by strangers!

Ass kicked by friends!

The future's looking bright, and it's looking bald.