The Back of My Head

(A fictional tale)

"Mister, the back of your head is bleeding."

I often hear that from someone standing behind me and my bald dome in a line at the store.

My usual response is polite: "Thank you, but it only looks that way. The red mark is just a birthmark."

But it is not a birthmark. It is an indelible scar made long ago by a jagged rock that struck me from behind as I was taking a shortcut home from grade school. The wound left me temporarily unconscious, made me miss a year of school, and ever since has left me in and out of hospitals and interfered with my cognitive abilities. When I had a long mop of black hair, no one saw the ugly scar. No one knew that it was the cause of my dropping out of college, losing two jobs because I could not stay focused, and being called "dumb." And when I lost my hair, no one knew the scar was the cause of my forced early retirement, and why two relationships went south.

I never did find who threw the rock.

But if I did, and if he or she was standing behind me and said I was bleeding, my response would not be polite.