It may be summer outside now (and I do like that), but it’s still springtime on my face and head. Like crocuses peeking out from the ground in April, early this month the hair under my nose started to bust through my skin. After a while I had a passable mustache and a scraggly goatee. My scalp in comparison has been lagging. At first some adolescent peach fuzz appeared up there. I confess that I shaved this stuff twice. I told myself that doing so was necessary, like on a pubescent boy’s cheeks, to get the real manly stuff to grow (where it still would) on top. But the truth is that I have gotten used to the bald scalp, recently supplemented by a mustache and goatee. I am told variously that I look like Mr. Clean, Michel Foucault, and Telly Savalas. (Bruce Willis has not come up.) And I flatter myself that these are meant as compliments. But after going bowling for BF’s birthday, a friend of hers asked if anyone mistook my head for a ball! Ouch. But that gives me an idea. A tattoo of three finger sized holes at the top… Still, I think I can get away with the look (without the holes), and there are whispers that some people even find bald heads on men attractive. Recovery is easier in that way for us, I suspect, than for women. When BF had chemo a good many years ago, she tried to embrace the Sinéad O’Connor look, but it was not so easy. There were far more strange glances to contend with. It’s a privilege that I enjoy; I know. But it does leave me with a gut wrenching choice now: To grow it back or not?