I’m mostly missing my tiniest toenail. No need for pity. I imagine it adds to my mystique. I blame my mother and her woefully scrappy excuse for pinky nails. My own small scraps of keratin make a debut once every few weeks, hang around for a spell, then skitter away. The glamour is almost unbearable. My wife realized two months into our marriage that my pedicures were two tenths a sham. Red polish painted onto the skin spot where pinky toenails might be. But I already had the ring on my finger. Snowed her good.
I got a half whistle from a tan Ford Taurus yesterday. Like I was the dubious protagonist in a Louis CK skit. Tired man beat down by life, seeing a late 30s lady waiting at the crosswalk. It’s 2:30 on a Thursday, he’s driving by, hey the window was already down. What the hell. “WOoo…” the half hearted whistle trailed away, lost in the paunch of his burrito belly. So many missed opportunities in my life.
Thank god he didn’t know about the cyclical alopecia in my eyebrows.* Every three weeks the poor dears drop out like flies. I might not have gotten any whistle at all. His gaze averted as the 2002 Tauras silently rolled by. Thank god for brow pencils. I’d be a complete shut-in.
*theoretically cyclical alopecia only happens to dog flanks, but I’m a firm believer that the irregular patchy spots of my brows are symptomatic of a latent onset syndrome.