Gone Tomorrow

Gone Tomorrow

1st July 2010. On Skype to my Polish friend Ewa, see a tiny image of myself in the top right hand screen and my hairline has obviously receded.
In the shower, dark, wet wads of hair slide out through my fingers, fall into the drain and lie there like dead mice.
Stepping out of the shower I felt breathless with shock and stood in front of the cheval mirror panting, as if I had just run a race, naked, like in a dream.
For some reason the remaining hair on top of my head goes into several large mats and I have to cut them off. Now my scalp really shines through like a little grey crescent moon ceaselessly rising.
The word "Alopecia" comes into my head sung to the tune of "Alouette." It rattles around my brain for hours and sounds quite soothing.
On Wednesday I couldn’t wear a scarf as it was so hot, so I bought a paper Trilby, but realise that I won’t be able to wear that in the theatre or cinema. What will I do, perhaps just sink down in the dark, or more likely just forget the whole thing and go bald. Not at all sure yet what I will do.
At the moment I can cover my bald pate by combing the hair up from the back, another version of the side-ways comb-over once made famous by Robert Robinson the quiz master.
I find hairs wound around my tubes of oil paint like stands of cotton, it falls into the paint getting mixed into the surface. Throughout the day I can feel it coming out in single strands, its stuck in the soap, gets into my face cream, hairs tickle my shoulders and arms, itch down my back, trail along the kitchen floor and I can even see them lying in the cat’s dish.