Bald New World

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I was eleven when everyone in the world lost their hair. I got up from bed, terrified to see that all my hair had fallen out. In the mirror, the uneven bumps on my head formed an alien tapestry that made me feel like I was staring at a stranger. I spotted a thick black mole above my ear that I’d never seen before and scratched it, only to find it wasn’t going away. Both of my parents were away on a business trip so I ran to my older sister, Kelly, hoping she knew what was wrong with me. I found her crying on the bathroom floor, clutching her own fallen hair. My eyes went to her scalp, an oddly shaped oval with protrusions jutting out. “What are you looking at?!” she demanded.

“Your head,” I replied. “What happened?”

She got up, pushed me angrily, then ran out of our apartment. I chased her, not wanting to be left behind. When I exited our building, she was nowhere in sight. Instead, a sea of bald people confronted me — everyone on the street had lost their hair. There was a frenzied madness in their eyes, confusion causing many of them to walk in a daze. I trembled as strangers accosted me and yelled that, “The whole world is doomed,” and, “We’re being punished for our vanities!” The Los Angeles Police blocked most of the major roads because riots were breaking out and I went from barricade to barricade in a daze. Trash littered the streets, stores were burning, and looters stole everything they could. I wanted to get to a 24-hour restaurant where Kelly’s friend worked when I noticed a man lying on his back on the sidewalk, motionless. His eyes had an apathetic gleam and his hands were covered in blood. Motorcycles honked and periodic echoes from bullets triggered car alarms. He was impervious to noise. “Sir?” I called.

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