A Close Shave?

Just before heading out, I looked into the mirror for a cursory check on my hair. No, it wasn't in place.

I adjusted my fringe, tried to smooth out any stray hairs. No, it still doesn't look right.

My scalp. It's showing.

I tried to spread my hair across, but to no avail. Every time I distributed my hair across from left to right, the other side would start to show.

Shit.

My hair was thinning. My goodness, was this how I looked in the morning?! Why didn't anyone tell me about this??

I was getting frustrated. What was meant to be a habitual adjustment of my hair has turned into an almost full-blown crisis.

Damn it. Chemotherapy has finally taken its toll. Looks like I might need to shave soon.

I give up.

I got out of the washroom, hoping and willing intensely that no one would take notice of my hair... or the lack of.

Walking into the adjacent room, I noticed a sink with an array of shaving blades, brushes and powder. Alarmed, I walked briskly past a bald guy with an assistant, whom I assumed was helping him achieve that clean shaven top.

So what now?

Is it time to lose my mane of glory? The irony.

Then, I woke up.