Today I tell my doctor about my falling-out hair. It gets everywhere, I complain. I’ve already broken two vacuums because of it. She doesn’t fully smile, but there is a little twitch at the corners of her mouth. She probably only laughs at Dad jokes─ maybe her pregnancy has something to do with that. I used to braid my hair at night to make it look wavy and thicker, but now I’ve got bald spots, I go on. She runs a hand over her own shaved skull. For a while she doesn’t seem to want to touch me. Is she worried I’ll give the baby something? But then she sighs and snaps on latex gloves. She’s going in. We lose about 100 hairs every day, she says. I lose that many whenever I turn my head too fast, I say, immediately regretting the hyperbole. To exaggerate is almost as bad as lying, my mother often told me. Rein it in, sister! For some reason, the image makes the doctor laugh. It’s a bark-like sound that has me wanting to pat her bald head. I’d like to ask her if this is her first pregnancy but what I really want to know is why she would shave her head when her patients, like me for instance, are trying so hard to keep their strands. Reminds me of when our next door neighbors went back and forth about divorce at the exact same time our family was rooting for Dad to stay alive. The doctor touches her belly as if she’s afraid the baby can hear my thoughts. I decide on silence. Patience. I notice that although I call her “doctor” she calls me by my first name. Is it because my married name is 13 letters long? Probably not. She just out-ranks me, that’s all. That’s clear as she writes out her prescriptions, assuring me they will work. Her face is fleshy, frowning. Who is she trying to convince? I imagine her impressing her husband with all the good she does in the world. I wonder if he misses her hair.
About:
Cheryl Snell’s books include poetry and fiction. She lives in Maryland and has recent pieces in Best Microfiction 2025 and Best Small Fictions 2025
