My best hair day ever was in seventh grade when the yearbook photographer took class officer photos. My hair looked near-perfect that day – full, clinging smartly across my head with a slight curl down across my forehead.
Back then, I thought I’d have that head of hair all my life, even if it one day turned gray. I was proud of my hair, thinking it was one of my most appealing attributes.
A year later, when the annual published our eighth-grade photos, I’d begun nurturing a creeping widow’s peak. My destiny was writ atop my forehead for all to see.