I watched myself in the cracked mirror,
trying to build a complete image from its two parts
and the few crumbs missing along the crack.
It cracked the first time I looked into it
yet never again since.
I guess that it died, cracking.
I don’t dare replace it,
don’t want another mirror on my conscience, you know,
at least not until I resolve the issue.
My issue. The mirrors’ as well, seemingly.
I started by looking into professional journals.
Sites as well. Also adds.
The simplest would be a wig, of course,
maybe of human hair? Would it be human alive or human dead, I wondered?
Maybe horse hair, if good for a violin bow
why not for my crane? Maybe I could even start playing music with it,
Oh, sorry, didn’t tell yet?
Sure, my mirror cracked. Because I’m bold. Mirrors hate bold people.
OK, the purists may correct it to bald but I prefer bold,
kind of more... positive, more daring, more dashing, more dazzling,
more bold... oops, which bold do I mean now?
And which horse hair, closer to his ass or the other end of the tail?
I bet it’s not even horse but counterfeit, plastic. The hair, not the horse.
So what about implant?
I moved subject of course, missed moving the stanza, sorry.
Saw an implant once, horrible.
The mirror would not have just cracked but fulminated.
Looked like a field of scientifically planted corn
or like a child placing black dots at every intersection of squared paper
or like a mini-map of mid-Manhattan
or like an insult to every hot-blooded male this side of my street.
Thus no, no implant please, not even of horse hair.
Though, come to think of it,
did anyone ever think to include scalps in the list of donated organs?
Why do you say horrible?
Heart, liver, kidney, scalp... what could be more natural?
No, transplanting skin from my ass to my skull is not an option, ok?
Three shark loans and two mortgages later
and it’s still a billiard ball above my neck.
Or a bowling ball, if the size disturbs you.
Do you prefer a bawling ball?... yes, maybe,
after all those millions of decorated paper cuts
moving from my bank to theirs
and tons of yellow metal bars
also from my bank to theirs
and thousands of sparkling pieces of not-glass
guess what?... also from my bank to theirs,
why should I not bawl?
I guess even Pfizer did not make so much money
from a dissimilar need similar target audience
First, why do people keep calling it egg yolk and not yolk?
Yes, I know about yak and I know about yoke and even about joke.
And I understand about egg white not being called just white
because it could be snow white and coke white and eye white...
But yolk? Did you even hear about a snow yolk?
OK, egg yolk. Tried it. Smells horribly. Looks horribly.
You beat it up
then you smear on your head
then you wait so and so long
then you wash it away
then again next day
and you cannot even fry it after so it is just waste
and still it won’t grow.
Did I forget something?
I guess, depending on custom and geography,
you may find advice swearing by cow urine
or marinated mushrooms
or olive oil spiced with outdated mustard mixed with molded black pepper
or, of course, crushed garlic, very efficient
especially if you live in a vampire infested area.
I gave up.
Already after the cow urine
though I had to mention the others, just for completeness sake.
You’ll have to accept me as I am. Bold.
Or bald if you prefer.
There. But not there.
Ok, if you insist...