My head is Charlie Brown round.
The rest of my body is not but the organ attic fits my neck. Most of the time I don’t think about its size or shape until I need to borrow someone’s hat or October comes calling.
It is the month of gourds and goblins. It is the season of my head.
Just last week, a doctor “friend” mentioned the shape of my head in reference to brain matter and my birth.
He pointed to my cranium and salivated for science.
“A lot of research could be done on a head like that.”
Since I wasn’t forced through the off-ramp, I left my mother’s uterus with a round, robust hat rack but this should not be cocktail conversation. No one wants to flip the organ donor card over c-sections and canapés.
I am sure the doctor and I had been talking about Alzheimer’s but I don’t really remember. I could only think about my keeping my head.
In theory (unsubstantiated but true), I do have a big brain and therefore need a large carrying case to support it. But with super size comes stupid storage.
My extra headspace contains almost too much room, too many cerebral cells. My daily thoughts range from non-Nobel Prize notes such as lint as a food source to how to iron my knees.
Big heads of the past and present have given us the theory of relativity, a couch to cry on and smizing as a global concept.
Me, I think about wine and quick-dry pants.
When I was acting, my dome was a Hollywood asset. On the set of a loan default industrial shoot, the makeup artist shrieked, “You have so much face to work with!” I took this as a compliment as she applied “nagging wife” spackle to my wide visage.
Now when I look at my big head, I often think of lost opportunities and the eternal pressures of a pinhead. Then I reach for the carving knife and my candy corn.
No hat needed.