Brad Turner plucked a hair from his lapel, and then let it float into the trash bin beneath the counter. He smiled at his reflection, held for three seconds while swiveling his head, and returned to his shrewd self-assessment. He’d need his eyebrows done before the interview with the Sheikh next Tuesday. Phil never failed to remind him that infatuated housewives and their teenage daughters composed Channel 5’s primetime audience. He had to look steadfast and handsome, while dangerous and sexy; there was a reason they called him the George Clooney of TV Journalism.

He placed a finger underneath his eye and pinched the skin. At least the cream he’d gotten from Charisma seemed to have improved his wrinkles. It was ridiculous to think that a skin cream could be illegal – more ridiculous that it required endangered yak liver, perhaps. But given that Melanie Burns at Channel 7 flew in an authentic African shaman to cure her shingles, he could excuse some FDA-unapproved cream.

Brad kept two pictures pinned to the side of his mirror. There was the photo of his family taken during a visit to Paris. It was partially obscured by bottles of hair product. Above it, he’d placed the group photo taken during his rookie year on the local Atlanta broadcast. Technically, his wife Patricia was also in the picture as the weather woman with perfect posture and perky tits. But kneeling in the center of the frame was a 24 year-old Brad Tzerjkian (his name change documentation not yet completed), smiling like rainbows were shooting out his asshole. And they might as well have. In that picture, Brad had the best hair day he would ever have. Each follicle found its natural resting place, exuding vitality, youth, and sexiness.

A week after the photo was taken, the lead journalist Harold Faison showed up to work drunk, screaming that Nazis were behind a conspiracy involving microwaves and coupons on the back of pudding lids. Brad got his first chance to interview a visiting dignitary. He was on the nationally syndicated newscast a year later.

The door creaked open and Brad heard a mouth-breather enter his dressing room.

“Looking good, Brad.” Phil clamped his sausage hands on Brad’s shoulders and kneaded oppressively. Brad winced. Before Phil became a news producer, he’d been an offensive coordinator of the club football team at BYU. Supposedly three players on the team missed games due to neck sprains consistent with what a medical board deemed ‘improper’ massage techniques. Despite the undefeated season, Phil left quietly before the players’ parents decided to press charges and brought his headset skills to the newsroom.

“Hear from Felicia?” Brad asked, shrugging Phil’s hands off. Felicia O’Day was his interview tonight, and also an old friend. The world knew her as a fashion model, environmental activist, and actress. He knew her as the only woman who prior to their first meeting sent an invitation on recycled paper to make love in her hotel room. The keycard had a lip-print and smelled like her world famous perfume, Scent de Lust.

Phil gazed open-mouthed at the mirror and picked at the wisps of hair he still had with fat fingers. “Not sure about your chances tonight; I think she’s into chicks now.”

“Phil…”

“I’m just saying that Charisma heard she went in for a Brazilian wax and came out with the beautician on her arm. The hotel charged her 1000 dollars for new sheets because they couldn’t get the, uh, love juice out.”

“That’s my mistress you’re talking about,” said Brad, unsure if it would be more satisfying to watch Phil choke to death on a frosted donut or Felicia in bed with a woman.

“You know I have a mistress, Turner?” Phil checked his teeth for refuse from today’s burrito lunch. “All I have to do is inflate her.” Brad wondered why ugly people even bothered to look in a mirror. Didn’t they just get depressed?

“How romantic,” Brad said.

Phil looked at his watch. “Five minutes and we need you on the floor.” He smiled at his star journalist and then reached for Brad’s shoulder. Brad tensed up, expecting another brutal rub. Instead, Phil grabbed an errant hair from his lapel and blew it away. “There you go.”

Brad watched the hair float away and then turned back to the mirror.

“If we get a 10 share tonight, screw Felicia, I’ll blow you!” Phil yelled as he exited. Brad ran a hand through his hair and inhaled.

***

Brad hardly had time for a post-coital pee when there was a knock on the hotel door.

“Did you order champagne, darling?” Felicia always talked like an actress in an old movie.

“No.” Brad paused in the bathroom to adjust his robe.

“Then ignore it! Come and perform cunnilingus.” Brad didn’t know how Audrey Hepburn would pronounce cunnilingus, but it probably sounded like how Felicia did it. He considered taking her up on the offer and then decided that regardless of who was knocking it’d be more fun to make her wait.

Brad strode to the door. He opened it and a short, bald man struck him in the chest with a thick manila envelope.

“What the –”

“Take it,” the man said. He pressed the envelope against Brad’s chest. He was clad in an oversized chef outfit and the sleeves swayed with the force of his thrust.

Brad brushed the parcel aside and tried to close the door, but the man stuck out his foot like a striking mongoose. Brad was startled by the swift act and, moreover, the delicate, genuine leather Gucci shoe on the foot stuck between the door and the jamb. His brain raced to connect the shoe to its disheveled owner.

“Don’t you recognize me?” The man asked, his voice betraying a hint of an Italian accent. His eyes were puffy from crying, and when he gave a bitter smile, they scrunched to expose only an iris, dark as an olive.

“Calvino?” Brad replied. Calvino Bellini was a fellow journalist, known for his scathing fashion reviews and year-round yacht parties. He also had brilliant hair, which flowed over his shoulders like ebony sand dunes. Now, Calvino’s few remaining hairs crowded by his ears, clinging like dandelion fluff to the sides of his head.

“I don’t have much time!” Calvino snapped. “I need to distract them so you can get home safely.”

“What are you talking about?” At some point during the Italian’s paranoid rambling, Brad had accepted the envelope. He felt papers slide around inside.

“Read it,” Calvino insisted, placing a cold hand on Brad’s. “I did the best I could.” The Italian breathed in loudly through his nose, like a deep sea diver preparing to brave the deep, and sped down the hall with only the swish of his ridiculous shirt in his wake. Brad closed the door, biting his lip.

“You didn’t invite him to join?” Felicia asked as Brad shuffled from the foyer to the bedroom.

“Umm, no,” he said and tossed the envelope on the floor beside his trousers. He crawled onto the bed and slipped beneath the covers, where he held the slender model against his chest, wondering if she could feel his thudding heart.

“You’re a selfish man, Brad.” She ran the top of her fingernail down his neck.

Calvino spotted burly two men cruising through the lobby. Their right arms remained in the pockets of their floor-length black raincoats. He pivoted on his handmade shoes, heading for the restaurant. With his chef’s coat disguise, he slipped in the kitchen unmolested.

“Why is that?” Brad kissed her neck. “Don’t I share you?” He moved lower to her breasts. “Don’t I please you?” he asked her, while Calvino slipped out the back of the restaurant into the alleyway and started sprinting for the street, for his car, for a plane ticket to a small island off the coast of Brazil.

Felicia grabbed Brad’s head, his chestnut hair sticking out from between her fingers. Calvino fumbled for his keys. Felicia moaned. Calvino saw the reflection of a gun on the driver’s side window. “Ciao,” he whispered before the bullet struck. Brad might have heard the sharp crack, but his ears were blocked by tanned thighs, Egyptian cotton, and the sounds of pleasure.

***

Three days later, Brad parked his Mercedes in the private lot beneath the station. He exited his car and noticed a man in a dark coat standing in the corner. One of the ceiling lights had burned out leaving the figure in darkness that was momentarily lessened by the glow of a cigarette. Brad nodded to the man. Slowly, the man looked away, reached into his coat and withdrew a cell phone. As he stepped into the elevator, Brad glanced back to the corner. It was empty. The cigarette smoldered on the ground.

When he walked into his dressing room, he was disappointed to see his briefcase on the chair. The envelope rested inside, unopened. After the strange encounter with his Italian acquaintance, he’d sent an email and vowed to wait several days for Calvino to respond, hopefully apologizing for such a bizarre joke. He’d noticed the ambulance when he drove home from the Wilshire that night, but never considered if it was related to the visit until now.

The show ran smoothly, even with Phil in an unusually manic mood. He’d decided to shave his head. He was no Andre Agassi, but it was a winning choice. He looked several years younger and the PA – a junior from NYU who enjoyed volleyball, frozen yogurt, and The Three Stooges according to Facebook – could tolerate inappropriate humor. Afterwards, Brad went for a beer or two with Phil, which turned into five of them and healthy amount of gin. By the time Brad forced Phil away from the dartboard (or the wall space around it to be precise), he was drunk and exhausted. He wilted into bed that night.

***

Brad awoke to Toby’s best Tré Cool impersonation one floor down. Unfortunately, his son was not very good at the drums and the music room was not as sound-proof as the realtor had promised. After the second chorus of “American Idiot,” Brad swept aside his sheets and stood, immediately bumping his toe against the brief case. He looked at it. A ray of light shot through the curtains, bathing the briefcase so the gold hinges sparkled.

Downstairs, Toby wailed on his kit so hard that the briefcase rattled. It jittered like there was something alive inside. Brad knelt down on the cold hardwood and unlocked it. Sitting on top of his notes was Calvino’s manila envelope. Brad lifted it out and unwound the red cord holding it shut. He pulled the papers out.

The first page was labeled “Worldwide Alopecia Initiative - Dihydrotestosterone Increase Through Vapor Dispersal.” There were several dense graphs and charts of chemical ingredients. Brad couldn’t understand the scientific jargon, but he recognized the term “alopecia” and the certainly the ominous “Top Secret” stamped across the front. He placed the first sheet aside and began to read: Dietrich Gruber, first class -

“Hey Brad!” Patricia began.

“Jesus!” Brad dropped the files back in the briefcase.

“Scaredy cat,” she teased. “You were out late last night. Felicia still in town?”

Brad stood up and stretched. “No – Phil was in the partying mood.” His wife nodded, neither interested in Felicia or Phil. She was dressed in a pantsuit, which Brad realized meant she had another book signing today.

“I’m about to head out. Make sure you’re dressed to take Toby to soccer by noon.”

“Will do.” Patricia turned to leave, but Brad held up a hand. She stopped. “I was doing the crossword yesterday and came across the word alopecia. Any idea what it means?”

Patricia frowned. “Hair loss,” she said while her eyes grazed her husband’s hairline. Brad nodded in appreciation. Patricia sniffed and left the room. Brad dove back to the briefcase.

Dietrich Gruber: German scientist with degrees from universities all over the world. Bald as a cue ball with bloodshot eyes that screamed “meth-habit.” He was rich too, having sold a pharmaceutical company to the Japanese in the 90s. There were other profiles beneath. Scientists who’d worked at Rogaine or in various military laboratories. Even a Russian aerospace engineer. One section contained maps where every major city was marked in red. A lone green dot identified a small town in the north of Sweden.

Then there were the photographs. Men with sunken cheeks like rotted apples huddled in cages. Every race and age was present, but they were united in fear. In every photograph, their gaze drifted just past the camera to some unknown horizon. They never touched the bars or each other. Rooted in place a handbreadth away, terrified, and alone.

Each prisoner had a series of top-down photographs depicting hair loss. The photos were dated. In all cases, their hair deteriorated to total baldness in less than six months. Some as short as two. The final three photos were grainy and shot from afar. The first showed a bald prisoner in a coffee shop talking to a cashier. The second photo was dated a month later and showed the same cashier with a markedly receding hairline. The third showed the bald cashier boarding an airplane.

Brad stuffed the papers back into the envelope and checked his phone. Calvino had not responded to his email. He began to write another and halfway through, he quit to run to the bathroom.

Before the mirror, Brad plunged his fingers into his hair and parted it forwards, backwards, split it sideways. He yanked open the drawer under the sink, pulling so hard that a bottle of lotion bounced out. Amid the clutter, he located and withdrew a pair of tweezers. He selected a spot on his crown and plucked a single hair. He held the hair up to the light – it appeared thick and healthy – and then sealed it in a plastic bag which he stashed in an old prescription bottle rattling around his travel toiletry bag. On his phone calendar, he counted back to when he met Calvino and marked it Day One.

***

A week later, Brad stared at the security guard attendant who operated the parking lot gate. His name was Andre and he was 27 years old. Normally, he gelled his hair, but today he wore a hat. He’d never wore a hat.

Andre cleared his throat. “You can go through, sir.”

Brad smiled. “Of course.”

***

Brad lived in a world of hairlines. Every male he passed on the street warranted an assessment. He’d taken to wearing sunglasses so he could peer at their foreheads and temples. The pair came from a spy-website and had small mirrors so that once the men passed he could inspect their crowns too. Anyone over the age of 18 seemed suspiciously thin on the crown or at the hairlines. If you glanced at a subway car, the number of fedoras suggested it was 1955 not 2015.

At work, he ran a hand over his crown and pulled away a small clump of hair. Twisting to see the back of his head the mirror, he put a dab of shoe polish over the spot. The next day, it rained and he was caught out with no umbrella. While splashing down 4^th Avenue, he paused and noticed how his rain slicked hair revealed his pale scalp. The shoe polish dribbled down the side of his neck.

At night, he’d take a photo of his head and compare it to past pictures. A picture from Cabo the year before. A news clip from his interview two months ago. The photo of Brad Tzerjkian in his dressing room. With a selfie stick, he had access to his crown. Soon, he didn’t need tweezers to take a sample. Then he stopped taking samples. It was Day 23 since first contact.

Brad was going bald. And the whole world was going bald with him.

***

“Calvino…” The woman stopped talking and two honking sobs tested the ability of the phone speaker. “Calvino is dead!” she managed.

“Dead?” Brad asked. She repeated herself. Brad gave his condolences to the secretary at the fashion magazine where Calvino worked. Had worked, he reminded himself. He hung up, left the newsroom and walked into Phil’s office.

“Phil, I want to do a story on baldness,” he declared.

Phil snorted, and rubbed his new smooth dome. “Not exactly Pulitzer material.”

“What I’ve got is more than just Pulitzer stuff. It’s…it’s national security!”

Phil spread his hands, inviting Brad to continue.

Brad dropped into the seat and leaned across the desk, getting so close he could smell the hummus on Phil’s breath.

“I have evidence that a rogue medical outfit in Sweden has deliberately created a virus which will cause all men on earth to go bald. Regardless of their genetic history, any adult male exposed to the virus is toast. Within six months, the whole planet is going to be bald.”

Phil looked like he’d just seen a dog lick its own butthole. Then, he softened and shook his head.

“You’re 42, Brad. It’s remarkable you’ve made it this long.”

“It’s not about me!”

“Brad, we can get Charisma to buy you a wig, it’s no trouble. Brian Williams got one years ago.”

Brad rose and stumbled against the chair. Phil raised an apologetic hand. “Look, I went through the same sort of thing once I started losing it. It’s not the end of the world.”

***

At home, Patricia hugged him as soon as he entered the foyer.

“Phil called. I heard everything. You are going to be ok.” Ever since Toby was born, Patricia used the same voice she had for the baby as she did with her husband.

Brad pushed her off and mounted the stairs. “I’m going to Sweden,” he said.

“What?”

“I said that I’m going to Sweden!” he yelled from the top. Patricia bounded up behind.

“Brad you can’t just go to Sweden. You have work, and Toby’s band is playing tomorrow, and honestly, I can barely tell that your hair has an issue. Running away is silly.”

Brad gritted his teeth and inhaled. When he felt Patricia’s presence behind him, he turned around and placed his hands on her arms. He kissed her. “It’s for a funeral. My old friend Calvino…his Swedish aunt is hosting.”

Patricia hugged Brad a second time and murmured condolences with quiet sincerity that contained none of her accidental condescension. She stroked his hair, careful to avoid his bald spot. The next day, when she woke up alone in a cold bed, she cleaned the stray hairs off his pillow so they wouldn’t be there when he got back.

***

Brad alighted the train in Åre, Sweden and immediately tightened his scarf. The brochure said that the town had the finest skiing in all of Scandinavia. It also said that it was a mere 220 miles from the Arctic Circle. The harsh wind tugging his eyelashes traveled from the Arctic just to demonstrate what the brochure couldn’t: cold sucks.

Near the station, he found a bar which had a phone book by the back phone. There was no mention of anyone with the surname Gruber. Brad showed the bartender the picture of Dietrich from the files. The bartender, an old man with a moustache that drooped over his mouth like a poorly knotted bowtie, gasped. He clutched his rag and muttered something. Brad waved the picture and nodded. The bartender hobbled to the front window and motioned for Brad to join him. He pointed up the mountain. At first Brad didn’t see it. There was some light – nothing more than a candle flicker amidst the brutal iron sky. Then, between the pine trees, the darker shading of a chalet melted out. The old man muttered the same phrase: Don’t go.

***

The ski-lift operator looked at his watch and bit his lip. “Too late,” he said.

“The sign says you close at 6pm. It’s only 5 o’clock.” The operator looked at this watch again. “Don’t do that,” Brad snapped. “The time isn’t going any faster.”

“Clouds…it is dark already.” He floated his mitten in the air like a woolen cloud.

Brad reached into his puffy coat. “Look Olaf, I have money; you’re a business. See?” Brad held up a wad and began to place bills on the counter.

“Storms,” the man said, his eyes fixed on the money.

“Here is the 80 krona for skis, 50 for boots, 100 for the day pass, and 50 krona for you to stop talking about the weather.”

***

On the ski lift, Brad folded up his cap to listen. The wire squeaked rhythmically. He heard a wolf howl from somewhere over the hilltop. And as the wind came down off the mountain, it swooped through the valley creating a whisper on the rooftops. Together, these sounds made a forlorn harmony. It was the sound of a land long accustomed to being alone. When he got off at the top, however, there was silence save for his own breathing. Nothing but his breath to press against the void.

He skied sideways and up, across the slope, with acumen from many winters at Aspen. Back and forth, he bore his weight, flexing his calves, pressing through the knee. Always sliding a little higher every time. The snow crunched under his skis. Crossing the mountain was harder than going downhill and soon his cap was plastered to his head. The distance between the ski slope and the chalet had looked manageable from the ground, but now that he was on the mountain, it was nearly impossible to know. Occasionally, bits of wooden roof and trails of smoke winked beneath the endless tapestry of pine.

He was surprised how little the distance mattered. Instead, he focused on the rhythm. Push. Crunch. Breathe. At times he forgot where he was going or why. The strain brought purity to his thoughts that he hadn’t felt since his hair started falling out. When it all went back to normal, he’d take Toby and Patricia back to Aspen. That was where he fell in love with her. Their first trip together, they raced to the bottom of the slopes, their hair fanning out behind him. She won, so he gave her a kiss.

He stopped when he felt a cramp disrupt his pace. He checked his watch: 6:38. Perhaps Olaf was worried now. He imagined the perpetually dazed ski-operator dialing the local police to tell them that the crazy American was stuck on the mountain. He actually laughed out loud and was glad to hear his own voice.

The storm started ten minutes later. Smooth, subtle darkness preceded it. First, Brad realized that the trees pressed together. With the white snow, it was hard to judge how fast night fell, but soon from trunk to sky was the same impenetrable gray. Snowflakes the size of rose petals fell fast and wet, soaking through his coat and sweater. He slowed to a shuffle, but knew he couldn’t stop or the cold would overtake his exhausted limbs.

A gust of wind rushed Brad’s side. He wobbled but remained upright, plunging the ski poles down for balance. He pressed too hard and the snow he rested on started to shift. His left leg started to slide out. Quickly, he oriented downhill and skied, using his momentum to right his body. But the snow hid the trees and he couldn’t stop before a pine branch knocked him across the chest. He collapsed and felt one ski break loose from the shoe. He rolled over to grab it, but only saw it gliding down the slope, quickly disappearing in the swirling white wall.

He lay on his stomach until the chill of the snow began to seep through his jacket. Falling snowflakes crept into the folds of his jacket. Slowly, he sat up as his breathing rate increased and the shock of his mistake became clear.

“Fuck!” he screamed. “Godammit!” He felt his screams absorb into a muffled croak as soon as they left his mouth. All of this, he thought, for hair. He snapped the other ski off his boot and tossed it into the churning darkness. The heavy ski boots sunk deep in the drift. His fingers were numb and shriveled inside his wet gloves.

“Brad Turner, signing off!” he cackled. His jaw chattered so hard he nearly bit off his tongue. He closed his eyes. Instead of black though, there was a flash of light. Brad knew ever since he murdered his brother’s pet goldfish in the 6^th grade that he wasn’t going to heaven. Maybe, the devil’s first trick was to make his burning furnace look like an angelic glow. Maybe -

“Låt oss titta hit!” Brad had never been so glad to hear the melodic gibberish of Swedish.

He opened his eyes and waved the ski poles above his head. The white wall flashed yellow. “Over here!” Men, dogs, coming towards him. “I’m here!”

***

“What a dramatic introduction Mr…”

“Turner. Brad Turner.” Brad huddled next to a fire in Dietrich Gruber’s spacious chalet. He was in a change of clothes and had already consumed a considerable amount of tea. The German had yet to ask him any substantial questions, except for his occupation.

“Most reporters call before they show up,” Dietrich said. He was wearing a rough hewn wool turtleneck that must have taken several hearty sheep to knit. He poured himself a considerable amount of cognac and then smiled at Brad like a child therapist. To Brad, the German looked more like a grocer than a mad scientist. His nose swelled from too many drinks over the years and his moustache was stained with tobacco.

“You aren’t most men,” Brad replied. He stood up and removed the blanket. “I’ll get right to the point: you’re making the world go bald.”

Dietrich said nothing. Brad walked over and faced him. “Calvino Bellini told me.” He stared at Dietrich, stared into his red-rimmed blue eyes, and then smiled. “You’re doing genius work. You know how vain newscasters are? Some of the people I work with,” Brad guffawed, “why, one of them flew in an African shaman to cure her skin condition. I used to use a skin cream with endangered animal parts. It’s sick. And not just TV people; I see it everywhere, and there is no turning it off. There are children with bulimia younger than 10. No, people can’t be told to ‘think better’ about themselves. They need to have their world turned upside down. Sometimes I wanna pour acid on my face because I’ll never truly be beautiful when I’m a slave to their system. But I’m too afraid – my hands won’t do it. Many won’t understand, but we deserve to thank you. You’ve braver than I. You’re brave enough to destroy everything, so that it might be rebuilt.” When Brad was done, his mouth had run dry. The German still hadn’t spoken. His eyes – they never seemed to stop roaming, never seemed to focus on any one object – crept over Brad’s face.

Then, he sipped his cognac and nodded. Brad felt two hands grab him from behind. He struggled against his captors, lashing out with one foot, but only glancing off a shin. As soon as he felt a cold circle press against his neck, he went limp. The pressure remained and all the blood in his body flowed to his head, his pounding head – he was going to die – when was the last time he even spoke to Toby; at least he’d die before he went bald, at least –

The gun retreated. The hands too, but Brad collapsed to the floor, unable to stand.

Dietrich sighed and looked at his drink. “Brad Turner converts to the light? Not entirely believable I fear – for your sake that is.”

Brad wiped away his tears with a shaking hand. “You k-killed Calvino. What was I supposed to do?”

“People die every day, and for more senseless reasons.” Dietrich kneeled before Brad and lifted his chin with one hand. “Now, what you truly came for: There is no antidote.” For the first time, Dietrich smiled and Brad saw his eyes come to rest. Within them was the same weariness he saw lurking in Phil’s endless chatter, the same sadness that stood out when Patricia did her baby talk, the loneliness of Felicia laughing in post-coital bliss.

“This is what you want? To destroy people’s lives?” Brad whispered.

“Perhaps if you weren’t so vain Mr. Turner, you might want it too. I want to transform them.”

“People deserve a choice!” Brad managed to yell.

“They’ve never had one.” Dietrich motioned to his goons and they dragged Brad away.

***

When Brad returned to America, Kevin Deacon was the anchor. Brad was placed on a month’s probation for his sudden disappearance. The network wanted him fired, but Phil convinced them his absence was mental health related. So he got a month off on the condition of making weekly visits to a counselor, and the promise to keep his job. As soon as he left the disciplinary meeting, he’d purchased clippers and shaved his head. Mental health, he heard someone whisper.

Brad watched from the kitchen as Toby flipped through the channels. He was only 13, so he still had his hair. In about six years, the follicles at the crown would wither and die and within six months he’d have the head of a 68 year-old retiree.

On the news, the bald Israeli prime minister was speaking to a suspiciously-thinned American president. Twice, the president reached up and stroked his wispy top. On the train, there were more fedoras than ever. Technically, the first article on baldness ran in the National Enquirer, but the follow up was an ABC broadcast which claimed that the rising trend was the result of a poor diet and could be reversed with better choices. The anchor had a toupee.

Toby yawned and changed the channel from the news to a reality show. Oil-covered dudes in Speedos competed to be the top model. The host had a ridiculous pompadour. The men had their hair gelled, puffed, mussed, blown back from the fan from just off screen. Brad ran over and snatched the remote from his son’s hand.

“Dad –”

“Why’re you watching that stuff? It’s depressing. C’mon, go outside.”

Toby blinked. “It’s just TV.”

Brad extended his hand gestured for the remote. Toby slapped it on his palm. “Can’t I just watch,” he muttered.

“It’s my TV, and it’s time to turn off. Go play the drums.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Read a book.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Then what the fuck do you want to do,” Brad snapped.

“Dad!”

“No, tell me.”

“I wanna watch TV!”

Brad grabbed Toby’s shoulder and shook him, gaping at the way his blond locks bounced. “You don’t have to! You have choice!” his mouth screamed, his eyes affixed higher the whole time.

Toby squirmed from his grip. “Ok, fine! You don’t have to be so weird about it.”

“You’re young, your – you’re supposed to be doing things. TV’ll rot your fucking brain.”

Patricia stormed into the room. She did not use her baby voice to talk to her husband.

***

5 years later

Last night it rained and this morning, Brad looks at the steaming sidewalk and smiles. He strolls the four blocks from his new apartment to the station while skipping over remaining puddles. Bald men stream along the sidewalk with him. Some are clean shaven, but many grow out their side hair and pull it back into a braid. Ever since Channing Tatum did it, it has been the new trend. Now that Toby is starting to go thin, Brad noticed he’s let his hair grow long in preparation. Toby. The last time Brad had seen him was that barbecue before he went to Georgetown. He wouldn’t see Toby over Thanksgiving, which meant that he might not see him until winter break. He’d like for them to go skiing.

At the station, Phil can barely let go of his new girlfriend to give Brad the briefs. As soon as he passes Brad the papers, his hands return to her shoulders. They knead. She sighs. Harmony.

Charisma comes by and puts on the foundation, a touch of bronzer, powder to set it all. She gets a phone call and excuses herself. It’s ok. Brad knows what to do. He finishes powdering and then begins a final inspection: He smiles at his reflection, holds for three seconds while swiveling his head. He checks his eyebrows. He pinches the skin beneath his eyes. Finally, he rubs a hand over his scalp…and stops.

In the harsh glow of the mirror lights, he almost misses it. A hair. Thin, yes, nearly transparent, but undeniably a hair nearly a centimeter long. The last hair on a male over 18 had fallen out two years ago at a bar in Russia. Brad sweeps the make-up off the counter and leans in to examine it. Off center, chestnut. A hair.

He gets off the counter and runs over to the door. He peers into the hallway, where bald men walk, and bald men smile, and two bald men laugh over a joke involving a beaver and a wooden dildo factory. Slowly, he closes the door and locks it.

Back at the counter, he closes his eyes and listens. There is only his breathing to press against the void. He might tumble in. He might already be tumbling. He stifles a scream when Phil knocks on the door and says, “Five minutes.”

Brad Turner plucks the hair from his head and lets it float down to the waste bin beneath his counter.