Somewhere in Corporate America

He only has a few strands and knows exactly where each of them should be. Right now, one is out of place. It's supposed to be a bridge between opposite sides of the shrinking horseshoe, and for some reason—did he walk by a vent?—it's starting to fall.

He's busy. The emails keep coming, the meeting is approaching and there's a deadline looming for the small part of his day that involves actual, deliverable work. This rebellious follicle is a distraction. He can't see it. He feels it. He must fix it.

Not that anyone else will notice. His looks are not what they hired him for. That's code. Delicious, complicated, clean code that makes applications hum. Code he cannot write when he is not focused.

So he reaches into his desk drawer, leans back in his swivel chair and, somewhere in Corporate America, a bald man combs his hair.

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