I go to a chiropractor about three times a year. Evidently, my hairstyle changes dramatically between visits.
“Michael, I almost didn’t recognize you,” the receptionist says. “It’s the hair. You got a real Einstein hair thing going on.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“On you, good.”
“What about Einstein?”
“No. Terrible. But he was genius, so whatever.”
I sit in the waiting room and worry that I have the hair of genius and the mind of a mortal.
A few minutes later, the receptionist asks if my birthday is the 8th or the 18th. I tell her it’s the 8th.
“You wrote the 18th,” she says.
I look over at the kidding waiting for his parent. He giggles and says, “everyone knows their birthday — even dummies.”
I decide against explaining that I have lousy penmanship. Instead I wait and run my fingers through my “wild” hair.