My father, he does not have the hair.

Well, he has the one.

My dad has been losing his hair for as long as I can remember. So, at least since I was born. There’s no correlation, I assure you.

But he has one hair on the top of his head that still grows. He only allows his barber to cut it once a year, on his birthday. Other days, just the sides get trimmed. So, he has the one.

My sister and I have never been particularly kind on this topic. I can’t imagine him with hair, I’d actually prefer that he has none. That said, children aren’t often sensitive to adult insecurities.

Clearly.

When I was three or four, my father was in charge of bath time one night. As he rinsed the shampoo from my hair, he said, “You’re going to have beautiful brown hair just like me.”

I immediately burst into tears.

“I don’t want to be BALD!!” I wailed.

Score one for the good guys.

My father apparently did not learn his lesson though. He still seemed to think that we had some modicum of empathy. How we bamboozled him into thinking that, I still don’t know.

While renting a video with my sister several years later, Lauren demanded to be in charge of the rental. After some bickering, my father handed over the cash and his rental card, which had his photo on it.

My young sister glared into his eyes.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” she sassed.

“Hand it to them. You’ll have to pretend you’re me if you want to rent the movie.”

My sister glanced at the photo and snorted.

“This photo is supposed to be me?” she intoned.

“What, was I sick?”