This morning, as I walked to the end of the train platform, I noticed a woman. She was about 40, average height and weight, smartly dressed in an long ivory wool coat, wool slacks, and heeled boots, carrying a sturdy black leather purse that she probably didn’t hesitate to spend four figures on, because women like her believe that any lacking in their appearance is redeemed by a designer purse.
I noticed her because I was admiring her. Since I’ve moved to the ‘burbs, my style cues no longer come from college girls and urban hipsters, but from classy women who abide in suburban enclaves. I want timeless elegance and subtle originality. I want that refined polish that effortlessly elicits inconspicuous obeisance from strangers. I want people to ponder if I’m a smarty or a sexy.
When I was about ten feet away from her, the woman turned to peer down the platform. I almost gasped: On the crown of her highlighted blond head was a gaping bald spot about the circumference of a soda can. I stared it in disbelief. Would she knowingly showcase a bald spot? Wouldn’t she conceal such a bold deviance from typical feminity?
Maybe a clump came out on her pillow or in the shower, and she had nary a clue of her hair’s treasonous egress. Troubled, I continued walking down the platform, running my fingers through my own hair. What if, one day, I stood on the train platform, ignorant of a hideous blemish laid bare for the world? Will the world be allowed to reckon my bald spot before I am?
