Here in this cramped airplane bathroom, I was flashing on a future that looked like this: Baldness → Unemployment → Flophouse in Duluth Inevitably, this led to a nasty rejoinder from some other, more reasonable part of my brain: Get over yourself, Harris. When I brought the hair thing up with Dr. Brotman, he leaned back in his chair and beamed skepticism at me from across his desk. “You don’t understand,” I said to him. “If I go bald, my career is screwed.” “You don’t understand,” he replied, eyeing my hairline. “You’re not going bald.”
