Hair

“My hair is falling out,”

I told the doctor.

The clinic in the basement office was cold.

Doctor’s offices are always cold.

I think she asked me how long ago

I noticed

it was falling out.

How long had it been

or when was I willing to admit

something was wrong?

I don’t remember the answer I gave.

I assume I told her it had been “months”

not “years”.

But it had been years.

She looked at my scalp and asked how

I had been styling it lately.

She was smart.

Curly hair disguises things.

She knew that.

I had already cut it short

because its limp and lifeless nature made me sad

and the heaps in my laundry and on the shower wall

made my stomach clench

every shower,

every laundry day.

“There could be a number of reasons.”

telogen effluvium caused by stress?

iron deficiency?

an illness?

mono?

I had entered the clinic seeking an expert opinion.

I had never hoped, so fully,

that something was wrong with me,

something only a doctor could see,

something invisible to me.

After thanking her, I walked away

to get a blood test that would tell me what

I already knew.

Physically, I was fine.

My hair only started covering

the carpet of my dorm

after my mind dove into a pit.

“Listen,” begged my hair.

“You are sick.

You are depressed.”

Through tears, I yelled back,

“No! You’re wrong!”

I cried myself to sleep for awhile,

feeling vain and ugly on top of

the mental distress.

A few weeks later,

I received the results of my blood test.

“Your iron is a bit low.

You can take a supplement.”

Oh, that must be it.