I used to have a dandruff problem. Or maybe I just dreamt I had dandruff. Either way, it was troublesome. I was considered a bewildered deep thinker because I was constantly scratching my head. I wore white shirts to work and avoided dark clothing. The more I used anti-dandruff shampoos, the more dandruff I seemed to shed. I lost three quarters of an inch of height and my scalp looked like I was running a carrot grater over it. I was convinced that anti-dandruff shampoos were actually causing the dandruff. Eventually I switched to baby shampoo because I figured babies did not get dandruff. But then my hair started falling out. Perhaps this explains why babies in my family never had hair until my daughter-in-law from El Salvador produced two of my grandchildren. We thought it was a miracle when Noemi was born with a full head of dark hair but her brother Diego outdid that when he arrived with a head and back full of black hair. After panicking that baby shampoo caused my hair loss, I now use whatever shampoo my wife abandons, the grandkids leave behind when they visit, or the neighbors discard in their trash. I particularly like hoarding complimentary hotel shampoos and squeezing those little bottles into one big container. I do not know why that process brings me such joy. Remarkably I do not have a dandruff problem now that it does not matter. I needed to be dandruff-free back when I was dating. Well, not exactly dating, more like asking girls out on dates.
While proofreading the above, I reluctantly allowed my ten year old granddaughter Zofia (who manipulates me easily) to read over my shoulder. Her critique: “As one writer to another, this is good so far but needs a better ending.”