I have a large head. I do. Hats fear me. Hairdressers shudder and check their schedules when I approach. I require an excessive amount of shampoo.
My husband tells me it’s because I have a big brain, which I like to think is true. I like to imagine that if I put my mind to it and utilized the gray matter that is currently just taking up skull space, I could move objects and control minds.
My father, the third person to realize that I was cranially endowed (after my poor suffering mother and the doctor who delivered me), affectionately called me Fathead. He used this nickname often in times of irritation when it was kinder to use a somewhat derogatory term of endearment than say, “you clueless fruit of my loins, I’d really like to return you for a full refund.” Perhaps it is his influence that inspired my fondness for unusual and less-than-sentimental nicknames like Agro and Knuckle-dragger. But of all these tender monikers, Fathead remains my favorite.
As usual, the acceptance of truth is a double edged sword. It is at once liberating and a burden. With a sadness borne of unattainable dreams, I’ve finally given up finding the perfect pixie cut or headband. Furthermore I now live in fear that an ill-timed breeze will blow my bangs back and inspire astronauts to use my cranium for a lunar landing.
On the upside, the promise of genius and super powers is exciting. I look forward to creating a cure for cancer and a painless bikini wax. And in the meantime, I’ll find comfort in my own untapped superior intellect while I try to crack open a beer with my mind.