Author: Stephen Bobbett

When I was a kid, I hoped that I would grow temples of white hair like Reed Richards from the Fantastic Four as I aged. I got them — along with a widow’s peak as sharp as a letter opener.

My hair was always wispy, even at its thickest. I buzz it all now. I like the feeling better, not so tussled by the wind or tickling on the scalp. It’s less to manage, less to restyle after being matted down in a beanie during the New England winters.

I’m fortunate to have a nice, round head. It made me a shoe-in for the lead in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown when I was in college.

I also buzz it because my hair only wants to fall to one side. The follicles grow like a crew without sea legs, leaning too far starboard and leaving the boat feeling lopsided.

But I miss the white temples, which are translucent with my hair this short. I’m sorry, Mr. Fantastic.

I wonder if I was in a rush for white temples because the people around me seemed to need me to be old more than they needed to be young.

I felt like people needed me to be a Reed Richards. Not just smart but genius. Not just flexible but elastic. Not just durable but indestructible.

When I look in the mirror, I see a shorn head, and I think, ah, there he is. Not Reed Richards.

Me.