Retired

Sure I miss it.
"Mister Caven, what happened to your hair?"
There are a lot of different explanations: I grew up through it. It slipped down my neck onto my back. It grew back inside my head. I gave it away. I don't tend to mention male pattern baldness. Kids aren't interested in that kind of science. There are plenty of kids who want to know why I didn't go with some kind of fade with a Nike swoosh carved into it.
My head as a canvas for corporate advertising. An interesting suggestion.
Instead, I prefer to keep my head clear of hairy distractions. For many years, I used the changing of the seasons to announce the shearing of my locks. Not anymore. It is now part of my daily ablutions. I leave the eyebrows, as they are good guides for where to put my glasses. As my friends grow gray, I know that if I were to let my pelt grow I would be a silverback.
This doesn't mean that from time to time I don't pine for something other than breeze covering my scalp. I don't recall the last time I blew bangs off my forehead. I do remember that my part was on the left. It was, until it was eliminated by the thoroughfare of my forehead going through. I also remember brushing and combing in a desperate attempt to straighten my wayward mop. The one my "friends" referred to as "bird's nest." Combine that ritual humiliation with the attempted afro I maintained in my senior year in high school, and you might understand why my current hairlessness comes as a relief.
Which still doesn't leave me without regrets. The Snoopy hair brush that has traveled with me from my parents' house in Boulder, Colorado and has been a part of my grooming kit since I was in elementary school now sits in my medicine cabinet with nothing much to do but hang out with the nail clippers, waiting for that one last chance to separate tangles and straighten my 'do. Snoopy's is a lonely and thankless existence. How do you tell a hair brush that he's been retired?