Shug pulled up at the lights under the shadow of the Royal Infirmary and watched a gaggle of nurses smoke a crafty fag. He watched them rub their pink arms in the cold night air and shelf their tits over tight-folded arms. They smoked without using their hands, afeart of losing any body heat. He smiled slowly and watched himself react in the mirror. Night shift definitely suited him best. He liked to roam alone in the darkness, getting a good look at the underbelly. Out came the characters shellacked by the grey city, years of drink and rain and hope holding them in place. His living was made by moving people, but his favourite pastime was watching them. The thin driver’s window made a sharp slicing sound as he slid it down and lit a cigarette. The wind came rushing in, and his long strands of thin hair danced like beach grass in the breeze. He hated going bald, hated getting old; it made everything hard work. He adjusted the mirror lower so that he couldn’t see the reflection of his bare head. He found his long, thick moustache and sat absent-mindedly stroking it, like a favourite pet. Under it his spare chin wobbled. He tilted the mirror back up. The Glasgow streets were shiny with rain and street lights. The infirmary nurses didn’t linger, flicking half-smoked fags into the puddles and tottering back inside. Shug sighed and turned the taxi past Townhead and pointed down towards the city centre.
From “ Shuggie Bain” by Douglas Stuart
I have been bald for so long that, most likely, I would feel weird if I would suddenly sport a thick head of hair. I find it funny how Shug “adjusted the mirror lower so that he couldn’t see the reflection of his bare head.” It reminds me of how I discovered my baldness at thirty-something years of age. I was in a room at a fancy hotel in London and suddenly looked up at the mirror on the ceiling, and to my dismay, I saw a large area of my scalp devoid of hair. Since then, I have looked at myself straight ahead or sideways in a mirror . Mother Nature left plenty of hair on the sides of my scalp and a well-placed tuft in the front, providing me with the optic illusion of a shock of hair on my head. Shug compensated for his hair loss with “his long, thick moustache and sat absent-mindedly stroking it, like a favourite pet.” I have grown an ever-present incipient mustache and beard. When one gets older, the hair grows everywhere—ears, nose, eyebrows—except in your bald area.
Shug found it difficult to grow old, “The wind came rushing in, and his long strands of thin hair danced like beach grass in the breeze. He hated going bald, hated getting old; it made everything hard work.” But, it is not that hard, Shug. So, take it easy, let it go, and wish me a happy birthday.
