Matt Larsen

Grateful Gray
 

I found out this summer why a lot of parents thank their kids for their gray hair.

One morning, as time ran short and my wife got dressed, I was hustling our toddler through the bathroom routine. We live about a mile away from the train, and timing it wrong means walking in late and no end of office trouble, so I needed the utmost efficiency. Simone clambered on top of her potty, still mostly a stepstool as we wait for toilet training to take. I opened the cabinet, bent down to hand over her toothbrush, rinsed and smeared with a taste of toothpaste. She accepted it and I straightened to grab a toothbrush of my own.

Thunk! My head impacted the vanity mirror. Somehow, it didn't hurt much. (The scientist in me noted that the scalp is handily deficient in pain nerve endings.) I could still see straight, so I returned my attention to my wee one, looking down to help move the toothbrush across her ivories.

Then, like the tickle of an insect tentatively probing a spot to bite, something wet crept down my scalp. I ran my fingers gently across the spot. Nothing to be concerned about. A trickle of blood flowed onto my forehead. Ah, there was something.

Periodically, I donate blood. I don't freak out over it. Questions remained, though. How bad was it? Should I call my wife? An ambulance? How would Simone react?

I pulled a few squares of toilet paper and held them to my crown. They came away red. Simone continued brushing her teeth, happily unaware that the bathroom mirror had come within millimeters of penetrating my brain. The toilet paper soaked through. I grabbed more, calling my wife in to inspect the damage.

"Your forehead is bleeding," she said, eyes glued to the rivulet of blood dripping across my face.

"Uh, no. That's just where it headed." I dipped my head down and showed her the wound, then the toilet paper.

"Red!" Simone said, pointing.

We nodded. My wife reached for the peroxide. "This might hurt," she said.

"As long as it doesn't bleach my hair," I said, momentarily proud of my salt-and-pepper locks.

She laughed and dabbed. The bleeding stopped. I glanced at my watch. Twelve minutes to get to the train. I weighed my options for the office: I could text ahead, favoring my headwound as medical excuse, or I could keep calm and carry on, rinse and run for it. 

Like a fool (or a man suffering from head trauma), I ran for it. Like a lucky fool, I made it, running full tilt in business casual garb, in 80 degree weather. As I took my sweat on the train, my head dripped again. Once again, I ran shaky fingers through my hair, but they came away clear. Only sweat, thank goodness. And my hair, when I arrived at the office on time with only minor mockery from the boss, thankfully was still gray.