This was distressing. Every morning he stood in front of the mirror and plucked his nostrils with his wife’s tweezers until his eyes pushed out involuntarily tears. And the next morning the hair would reappear more defiant. So this is old age, he thought, watching your hair stubbornly migrate from your head to your nostrils and ears while trying to remember if you’ve already peed.
© 2016 Occasional Dreams