As someone who suffers alopecia areata I’m somewhat ambivalent about hair. While showering yesterday, rubbing bar soap on my skull, I peered into the alcove and spied my abandoned shampoo bottle. Having recently enjoyed a long stint with hair, I didn’t have the heart to toss it yet.

You stand tall, proud in purpose
formal guard in your finest dress
cap snapped tightly atop your head
Honey gold like apple juice or a fine IPA
nestled in the lower two thirds of your clear container
Staring out at me through a label glistening

Yes, the water is fine as it rolls down my skull, tickles my neck
warms my back and revives my spirits
but as I wipe dripping bar soap from my eyes
(why waste shampoo on a bald head?)
I think how offended my skin must be
startled at the sudden exposure
the indignity of discovery for each mole and scar
who for years lay snuggled warmly under slowly graying years
now shift and grumble at the sudden attention
It too misses the luxury and routine

Lather, rinse, repeat