Oh, little by little, they stopped calling, texting, no shouts up from the street like the old days, and that email-pony, he must have died somewhere on a wire road.
And still that wasn't the worst.
When the last hair fell out, his head simply slipped off, spun down the front of him right there on Third Avenue, and bumped ear-over-nose off the curb.
The rest of him, with not much left to do and grateful for the relief, went home, sat down and took a long needed rest.
Well, that bald head just blinked and blinked, nose stuck out from a lonely shadow while the larger part lay tucked between the hard rubber tire of a beat-up 87 Ford Thunderbird and the broken end of a curb.
Wedged in, that head.
"It'll come back. I'll just wait here," said the head, hopefully.