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Henry lingered by the bathroom mirror, fingers hovering above the thinning patch on his scalp. Once, those same fingers had swept through a mane of blonde hair—his pride, Trish’s delight. Back when they’d first met, long hair was all the rage, and Trish had thought him heaven on a stick.

Meeting Henry’s family, Trish had noticed his father and uncles were a little light on top, but she’d brushed it aside. Life rolled on: marriage, children, milestones ticked off with barely a fuss. Only now, as she watched Henry’s hair retreat in earnest, did she realise how much those early indicators had meant.

But now, Henry’s scalp was a patchwork—scraps of hair clinging on as if one of the grandkids had stuck them down with glue. Trish found herself both amused and exasperated by the sight. She’d tried to be tactful when Henry first asked if she thought he was thinning on top, offering gentle reassurances. Yet, as the months passed and his hairline retreated, even Trish had to admit defeat.

Henry pretended not to care, but Trish had caught him more than once, peering into her make-up mirror, twisting this way and that to inspect the bare spots. The glare from the magnifying light bounced off his scalp, nearly blinding her, and she winced—not just at the sight, but at the quiet vulnerability in his eyes.

One evening, as they settled in front of the telly, Trish found herself glancing at Henry more often than at the screen. She began pointing out actors who wore their baldness with pride, hoping to offer comfort, perhaps even inspiration. ‘He looks rather distinguished, don’t you think?’ she’d say, nudging Henry gently. But Henry only huffed, fingers drifting to the remnants of his hair, clinging to what was left.

It wasn’t just vanity—Trish knew that. It was the quiet ache of change, the sense of something slipping away. She watched him grow more frustrated after each trip to the barber, returning home with a scowl and a receipt for a full-price haircut, despite the dwindling crop. Trish bit her lip, torn between sympathy and the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

When Henry finally thumped a paper bag onto the kitchen table, Trish’s heart skipped. ‘Alcohol?’ she ventured, hoping for a light moment.

‘A hair trimmer,’ Henry replied, voice low but determined. ‘Do you think you could, you know, shave it all off?’

Trish hesitated, the weight of the moment settling between them. Was this the right thing—for him, for her, for the memories tied up in every strand? But as Henry looked at her, hope flickering in his eyes, Trish felt her doubts ease. She nodded, hands trembling at first, then steadying as she worked. Each lock that fell to the floor marked not just an ending, but a new beginning—one they would face together.

‘A fresh canvas,’ she smiled, kissing the top of his head.

This was written to a prompt at a local writing group.

Photo: Phrenology head at North Rocks market