At the checkout, a teenage cashier with a terrifyingly thick pompadour scanned it without a second glance. Arthur felt a surge of irrational jealousy. "Is that all for today?" the teen asked. Arthur nodded, clutching the brown paper bag to his chest as he hurried back to his car.
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The mirror had become Arthur’s least favorite houseguest. Every morning, he stood before it, tilting his head at extreme angles to track the slow, steady retreat of his hairline. What used to be a thick mane was now a wispy memory, a "solar panel for a sex machine," as his brother joked. But Arthur wasn’t laughing. At the checkout, a teenage cashier with a
He had spent weeks lurking in the dark corners of hair-loss forums, reading testimonies from men named HairToday and VertexVictory . They spoke of follicles like dying plants needing a specific kind of rain. The consensus was clear: it was time to buy Rogaine. Arthur nodded, clutching the brown paper bag to
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