Twenty nine years ago, Mr. Bald Man, you were mowing a lawn at the corner of Reed and Fishinger roads in Columbus, Ohio. It was the summer of ’78; I was melting in the back seat of our family’s red ’76 VW Rabbit. You were shoving a lawnmower across a yard that was a week overgrown. The lawnmower struggled against the dense lawn; forward progress rhythmic, the plunging baritone as the motor nearly stalled and ascending scale as it recovered. While we waited for the light, you wrestled the lawnmower parallel to our car. Then the lawnmower finally quit. You straighted, pulled a white towel from the back pocket of your dark blue coveralls, and mopped off your bald pate. The amount of mopping was remarkable. You went at it forever. I remember thinking, he’s going to need another towel. It also occurred to me I’d never considered what a bald man might do when his head is dripping with perspiration. Heck, I was nine; I’d never considered perspiration.
I reported the incident to my mother. She glanced into the review mirror and said, “you should write that down.”
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