Perfectly normal paranoia

This morning, as I was standing bleary-eyed in front of the washing basin wondering why the toothpaste was on the right instead of the left where it should be, I noticed that the old wreck in the mirror had a single strand of hair, about ¾ inch long poking up from the middle of his head, just behind the theoretical hair line.

I only noticed because of the chance glint of light off it. A single bloody strand: it must have escaped the clippers when I used them last week, or it’s going for Olympic gold in the hair growth stakes. Now since what little hair I have is fair to blond, it’s unlikely that anyone else would have noticed, but that piece of logic is hardly enough to stifle the incipient paranoia from kicking in. The merest hint of the thought that people might be snickering behind their hands because I have spent a week wandering around looking like a fat, balding Billy Whizz was enough. The hair’s fate was sealed; out came the scissors.

Not that I’m occasionally insecure or anything. Anyway, I’ve had a cup of coffee now, and all is well with the world.

I still don’t know why the toothpaste was on the right, though.

Worrying.

Perfectly normal paranoia

This morning, as I was standing bleary-eyed in front of the washing basin wondering why the toothpaste was on the right instead of the left where it should be, I noticed that the old wreck in the mirror had a single strand of hair, about ¾ inch long poking up from the middle of his head, just behind the theoretical hair line.

I only noticed because of the chance glint of light off it. A single bloody strand: it must have escaped the clippers when I used them last week, or it’s going for Olympic gold in the hair growth stakes. Now since what little hair I have is fair to blond, it’s unlikely that anyone else would have noticed, but that piece of logic is hardly enough to stifle the incipient paranoia from kicking in. The merest hint of the thought that people might be snickering behind their hands because I have spent a week wandering around looking like a fat, balding Billy Whizz was enough. The hair’s fate was sealed; out came the scissors.

Not that I’m occasionally insecure or anything. Anyway, I’ve had a cup of coffee now, and all is well with the world.

I still don’t know why the toothpaste was on the right, though.

Worrying.