His Hair


At times his hair, which normally rose from his forehead like anthracite cliffs from a foamy brow, would tire and droop, becoming lax, breaking engagements at the last minute, drinking too much in the evenings and awaking dissolute and angry. At such times friends became scarce, opportunities few. At such times, the man — whose own life was the model of probity and stability — would regret ever having entered into association with his hair, and would sigh.

Matt Hannafin