A fictionalized comic essay about an unflattering thought.
Two years after my ex cheated with a colleague, I saw him while out for a walk. His once-impressive curls had thinned. For one extremely undignified moment, I decided the universe had opened a complaints department and finally reached my file.
“That’s him?” my friend asked.
I nodded with the solemn satisfaction of someone observing a legal judgment. We had, in fact, observed a man crossing a street.
The thought was petty, and for a few seconds it was enjoyable. He had hurt me; I liked seeing him look less invincible than he had in my memory. What made the moment ridiculous was the elaborate moral significance I assigned to a hairline.
Hair loss does not establish a person’s character. Plenty of decent men lose their hair, and plenty of dreadful ones retain excellent coverage. Nature has shown no serious interest in organizing people according to my romantic history.
What had changed was my view of him. He was no longer the central figure in an unfinished argument. He was an ordinary person I had once loved, carrying on with an ordinary morning. I could notice him and keep walking.
My friend asked where I wanted coffee. That turned out to be the more relevant question.
I am not claiming a noble reaction. I had a small, mean thought, recognized it, and went on with my day. The satisfying part was not his appearance. It was that my day no longer depended on him looking sorry.
