My hairline is slowly receding, especially on the sides. By and by, it has reached the two holes above my forehead, which were drilled into my skull to drain the blood that had accumulated after my climbing accident in the Alps (“The Only Regret,” September 23, 2001). The other two holes, which are in the back of my head, are likely to remain covered by hair, but the two in front may well get exposed. Not a pretty sight, to be sure. Yuckety yuck. I will have to wear a cap at all times so as not to scare the children. But the holes will give my face a new if sinister twist. Like horns in reverse, they will make people pause. And ponder in awe. Which will suit me perfectly fine, it goes without saying. My brush with death at the tender age of fifty-five was certainly worth it.