My grey hair is getting darker.

My grey hair is getting darker. That was a patient’s query. That’s not something you usually hear from a patient, but I wasn’t surprised. I knew what it meant. It was a man, in his early 50’s. His face covered, but his eyes told me he was smiling. He looked a little shy, a little excited, a little in terror. As if he had told every woman he dated about his secret wish, but never dared to do something about it. I didn’t say anything. Most men were too ashamed to say that out loud. But I understood them. My grey hair is getting darker. They were the words of a man who wanted to get a hair transplant, but felt too ashamed to say it out loud. He was sitting in my waiting room. Alone. I think he wanted someone to accompany him. He put his hand on my arm. I didn’t move. He didn’t move. I knew what he wanted. I could feel it. I opened his file on my desk computer. It was almost empty. A short file. Gavril Petrov. 53. I didn’t feel anything. I had done it before. With younger men. With older men. I had never felt anything. I wasn’t allowed to feel anything. I saw it. It was only a fleeting shadow, but I saw it. He knew what I did. It was a game. A silly game. I knew what he wanted. He knew what I wanted. It had all happened before. I pushed the elevator button. His hands rested on my hips. His hands didn’t rest on my hips. His hands were above my waist. Gavril Petrov. 53. I saw it. I saw what he wanted to do. I saw myself, in a blond wig, in a blue uniform, painted red lips, and I saw him, and I saw me, and I saw him, and I saw him, and I saw him, and I saw him. I saw what he wanted. It was what he had always wanted. I knew. I saw it. The elevator stopped. His hands didn’t rest on my hips. His hands were above my waist. Maybe I imagined it. I saw it. I saw it. I saw it.

My grey hair is getting darker.

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