Dents

This morning I went to the station to drop off some CD's. A friend of mine was in the office doing the paperwork for his show.

"Hey, howzit goin'?"

"Ok, I s'pose. Just droppin' these spots off...recorded them last night, they'll be on the shelf..."

"Allan?"

"Yes?"

"What's wrong with your head?"

"GODDAMN IT! I am sick,sick,sick,of that question! There is abso-lute-lee nothing wrong with my head at all and maybe if you people stopped pointing out how troubled I am , then maybe I'd stop pouring gasoline on dead ashes and expecting a motherfucking Phoenix!
Maybe I don't want to deal with certain shit because I don't have to deal with it- it's pointless and it's fucking stupid and it's too late anyway - what the fuck is wrong with my head?
Who fucking cares what's wrong with my head?
What the fuck is wrong with you that you have to ask me that?"

My friend looks at me. I'm startled by his lack of alarm. He shrugs.


"Um. Well, if you say so...I was asking about the dents."

"The dents?"

"The dents in your head. Do they hurt?"

I walk down the hall and examine my bald head in the bathroom mirror.
Sure enough, there's a series of rounded dents crossing the top of my shiny dome, ear to ear.
Oh.
Earlier, I had my clunky old studio headphones on for hours- the padding is shot and they are too small for me anyway, so the metal connecting band has left dents in my scalp. It looks like the treadmarks left by a tank or bulldozer.
Ooops.

I walk back to the office, apologize to my friend:

"So...um...sorry 'bout that. I didn't know I had dents in my head."

He looks up and smiles.

"It's ok. I hate christmas too."