I wouldn’t dare classify myself as bald, though. Thinning? Sure. Most people are not tall enough to see my bald spot, nor can they clearly see the nearly imperceptible retreat of my hairline. Unless they spend even a second comparing photos of me today to my Guardian author photo, which is from nine years ago. You might not notice, but I do. I have to carve out an extra 20 minutes every morning just to fuss over my bald spot. I summon what little hope I have left to comb and fluff the thin area at the top of my head, praying I can figure out the cheat code for hiding my darkest shame. Eventually, I surrender – the rage over my metaphorical windmill subsiding as I accept reality.