Instead, I had my forelock pushed back and was scrutinizing a hairline that seemed to me about as stable as the Maginot Line. Bianca had busted me doing this on more than one occasion in our bathroom at home. She pointed out that, other than some thinning in the back and a receding divot near my part, I basically had a full head of hair. But every now and again, a stray glance in a reflective surface would send me down the rabbit hole. Here in this cramped airplane bathroom, I was flashing on a future that looked like this: Baldness → Unemployment → Flophouse in Duluth
