For some reason, my hair (or lack thereof) is a running topic of conversation with the kiddies. While assembling three school lunches one morning, I listened to an Algonquin roundtable discussion about how Irene and I look different in the wedding photo they see hanging on our bedroom wall. Their little breakfast chat quickly veered into a thought-provoking analysis about how much less hair I have 14 years later. Faster than a four-year old can say “follicle,” Xander had bounded away from his Cheerios to offer a general overview of my recent haircuts.
X: Your hair gets cut, but it doesn’t really come back.
Me: Well, after you turn 40, it grows but just not as much as before 40 (except if you’re my dad, who at 80 still has a full shock of white Fonzie Fonzarelli-style hair). My bright idea was to give Xander a reasonable far-off age number so he wouldn’t have to freak out about his own hair growing back sufficiently every time he gets a trim.
Yep, there may be less vinyl on this guy’s car roof but the engine is still hitting on all cylinders. That is, the brain is still sharp — still able to tap into its deductive reasoning skills….or perhaps it’s just the sporadic Rogaine applications seeping in…..