My eyes peer around in
shame, wondering if
anyone else sees my
hand select the next victim.

(I've learned to disguise
their motion in a twitch
of the hand.)

My head itches.  Bored.  How
do you label compulsion?

Look deep into my eyes as
I sequester the next one
and decide its fate --

one quick yank and the deed
is done:  banished from my
head and into the trash to join
the others.  Single strands.
Whole knots accuse me of
my crime:  guilty as charged.

My scalp screams in protest:
what are you doing?  IT
HURTS!!  Why do I do this?  

The ba(l)d spot on my head
a mute testimony to where it
once lived with its sisters,
growing ever bigger.

About the size of my palm 
now.  Much more and the
comb-over won't work.

Who do I think I am?  The
Donald?  YOU'RE FIRED!
as I pull out another one.

Sleight of hand:  a magician's
tric(h)k that's ruining my life.

Satisfaction momentarily
eases the depression and
stress until the next time.

I'm ugly.
I'm bored.  
I hate this but
don't know how
to stop ...