Peruca II

«My third date with Brooke is the night before her foot surgery. We’re in Manhattan, in the ground-floor sitting room of her brownstone. We’re kissing, on the verge, but first I need to tell her the truth about my hair.
She can sense that I have something in my mind. What’s wrong? She asks.
Nothing.
You can tell me.
It’s just that I haven’t been completely honest with you.
We’re lying on the couch. I sit up, punch a pillow, take a breath. Still searching for the right words, I look at the walls. They’re decorated with African masks, eyeless faces with no hair. They’re eerie. Also, vaguely familiar.
Andre, what is it?
This isn’t easy to admit, Brooke. But look, I’ve losing my hair for quite some time and I wear a hairpiece to cover it up.
I reach out, take her hand, put it on my hairpiece.
She smiles, I had a feeling, she says.
You did?
It’s no big deal.
You’re just not saying that?
It’s you eyes I find attractive. And your heart. Not your hair.»

Open, Andre Agassi