they neglected it when they were young.
And it is true that when I turned 40, I started noticing, if not every day, once in a while, especially after a shower, while combing my hair, that my forehead seemed to be getting wider, higher, and my hair seemed to be retreating towards the back of my head.
The hair on the side of my head resisted. It was still thick there. But on top it was getting thinner, less dense, more transparent, even when I combed my hair very loosely and fluffy and high on top. I could see my skull through it when I looked in the mirror, especially in the evening when the light was turned on in the bathroom.
So that day, the day I was so depressed, and saying that I was going to give up everything, even writing, Erica said, Take off your shirt and your pants, and sit on this chair. Iâll be right back .
Astonished by this sudden command, in the middle of the day, I sat on the chair in my underwear, wondering what she was going to do to me. And here she comes, joyfully hopping back, still fully dressed, with a comb in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. And before I can even object or argue, she starts cutting. I give in.
Why bother resisting? Depressed as I was, let her cut it all, let her shave my head if she wants to. Let my hair go to hell. Who cares.
Okay, so not to keep you in suspense any longer. When Erica had finished clipping my hair on all sides, she said, Go look at yourself in the mirror .
I go to the bathroom without much enthusiasm, and I look into the mirror. At first, I do not recognize myself. And suddenly I burst into laughter. Erica comes in. Well, what do you think? She has a lovely smile on her face. A reassuring smile.
I look like Julius Caesar , I say. You gave me an imperial hair cut . I lean towards the mirror staring at myself. I burst into laughter again. I examine my new hair cut. From the front. From the side. In profile. With a little mirror in my hand looking at the back of the head in the big mirror over the sink. Not bad. Damn good. Makes me look younger. Donât you think so? Bolder too. I mean more virile . I suddenly felt. I couldnât stop laughing.
And you know what? I have not stopped laughing since that day when Erica cut my hair Roman style, since the day she changed the direction of my hair forward. Now I could cover half my forehead with my hair, up to where it used to grow when I was younger.
Itâs also on that memorable day that I understood how I had to write the noodle novel. Straight forward in mad laughter, without worrying about what was left behind, simply projecting myself into the story without worrying about what would happen, or would not happen. That day I invented the leap-frog technique. Better known as Laughterature .
Well, Iâm not going to bother you now describing in detail how little by little my hair changed color, from black to grey to white. The reason was the noodle novel. What I was writing day after day continued to cancel itself as I progressed, or regressed, I should perhaps say. And this was certainly the cause of the discoloring of my hair.
But at least now my hair no longer depresses me. I rather like it, even though there is less and less of it, and itâs more and more white.
Â
MORE ABOUT MY HAIR: SUPPLEMENT #1
Today I saw my hair fall out. I saw it with my own eyes. I had just taken a shower. I was drying my hair with a towel. Gently rubbing my skull. Then leaning over the sink, I shook it well with my fingers to make it more loose, more supple, and thatâs when I saw 4 hairs, yes 4, fall from my head one after another into the sink.
I didnât panic. I just told myself, now I have 4 hairs less on my head. Or should I have said I have 4 less hairs.
I reflected. If I were to calculate how many hairs I have on my head right now, and if I were to divide that number by the number of showers I take each year, on the basis of these 4 fallen hairs, could I determine when I will be
And it is true that when I turned 40, I started noticing, if not every day, once in a while, especially after a shower, while combing my hair, that my forehead seemed to be getting wider, higher, and my hair seemed to be retreating towards the back of my head.
The hair on the side of my head resisted. It was still thick there. But on top it was getting thinner, less dense, more transparent, even when I combed my hair very loosely and fluffy and high on top. I could see my skull through it when I looked in the mirror, especially in the evening when the light was turned on in the bathroom.
So that day, the day I was so depressed, and saying that I was going to give up everything, even writing, Erica said, Take off your shirt and your pants, and sit on this chair. Iâll be right back .
Astonished by this sudden command, in the middle of the day, I sat on the chair in my underwear, wondering what she was going to do to me. And here she comes, joyfully hopping back, still fully dressed, with a comb in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. And before I can even object or argue, she starts cutting. I give in.
Why bother resisting? Depressed as I was, let her cut it all, let her shave my head if she wants to. Let my hair go to hell. Who cares.
Okay, so not to keep you in suspense any longer. When Erica had finished clipping my hair on all sides, she said, Go look at yourself in the mirror .
I go to the bathroom without much enthusiasm, and I look into the mirror. At first, I do not recognize myself. And suddenly I burst into laughter. Erica comes in. Well, what do you think? She has a lovely smile on her face. A reassuring smile.
I look like Julius Caesar , I say. You gave me an imperial hair cut . I lean towards the mirror staring at myself. I burst into laughter again. I examine my new hair cut. From the front. From the side. In profile. With a little mirror in my hand looking at the back of the head in the big mirror over the sink. Not bad. Damn good. Makes me look younger. Donât you think so? Bolder too. I mean more virile . I suddenly felt. I couldnât stop laughing.
And you know what? I have not stopped laughing since that day when Erica cut my hair Roman style, since the day she changed the direction of my hair forward. Now I could cover half my forehead with my hair, up to where it used to grow when I was younger.
Itâs also on that memorable day that I understood how I had to write the noodle novel. Straight forward in mad laughter, without worrying about what was left behind, simply projecting myself into the story without worrying about what would happen, or would not happen. That day I invented the leap-frog technique. Better known as Laughterature .
Well, Iâm not going to bother you now describing in detail how little by little my hair changed color, from black to grey to white. The reason was the noodle novel. What I was writing day after day continued to cancel itself as I progressed, or regressed, I should perhaps say. And this was certainly the cause of the discoloring of my hair.
But at least now my hair no longer depresses me. I rather like it, even though there is less and less of it, and itâs more and more white.
Â
MORE ABOUT MY HAIR: SUPPLEMENT #1
Today I saw my hair fall out. I saw it with my own eyes. I had just taken a shower. I was drying my hair with a towel. Gently rubbing my skull. Then leaning over the sink, I shook it well with my fingers to make it more loose, more supple, and thatâs when I saw 4 hairs, yes 4, fall from my head one after another into the sink.
I didnât panic. I just told myself, now I have 4 hairs less on my head. Or should I have said I have 4 less hairs.
I reflected. If I were to calculate how many hairs I have on my head right now, and if I were to divide that number by the number of showers I take each year, on the basis of these 4 fallen hairs, could I determine when I will be
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