He worries about losing his hair.
I mean, i understand, i’m vain too.
But he worries in the way the condemned do.
He waits for it like a death sentence.
“My father is bald, my grandfather was bald”
“My youth will be over, the flowers will dry”
“My life will be over when i’m bald”
“…Voldemort is bald”
Meanwhile i’m right there slipping from between his hands like sand.
I wave my hands, jump up and down.
He’s busy googling hair loss shampoos.
I leave, i slam the door, he doesn’t even turn.
He’s looking in the mirror, only his image in sight.
He worries so much about losing.
Losing his looks, losing his fitness, losing his money, losing his hair…
And his hair is still on his head,
but now the room is alone.