The art of losing your hair

Although fatigued to the point of catatonia, and sitting there like a 19th-century Fang funeral mask, I am glad to contribute to the gaiety of a dinner party by being a good listener. But to be a good listener, even a catatonic requires acting skills. I am learning to lift my glass to my mouth and absentmindedly sip while politely maintaining eye contact. I am learning to leave a dignified or at least sane interval between each visit to the glass and to vary that interval. I am learning to appear interested long after interest has waned or petered out. These skills need polish and I am not yet the finished product. Fortunately inveterate talkers in full spate are readier than most to suspend disbelief, and some muleteers couldn’t care less whether you are listening attentively or not.

After an evening last week spent listening, I lay in bed at midnight with my hands behind my head getting reacquainted with myself. I remembered that during the evening I’d glanced up at the night sky and witnessed the fall of a meteorite. The incandescent white blob fell slowly and silently as though restrained by a parachute, then went out. At first I thought it must be a lone firework. Then I remembered it was the meteor season. Nobody saw it but me. I replayed the dropping brightness in my mind’s eye while gripping my hair with both hands — a habit when thinking.

Then I lifted my head slightly and found I was holding two clumps of hair in my hands. I reached out and opened my hands and watched the grey and white hair fall in the light of the bedside reading light. Then I fell asleep.