Getting worse
I made my way to the metro station. I ran down the steps to the platform, two a time. A train was waiting. As I approached, the doors began to close. I was too late. Just before the train pulled out, the last thing I saw was a man looking through the window at me, grinning. A man with lots of hair. Grinning. At me.

At this time of the day, the work rush-hour trains arrive in quick succession. I clambered aboard the next one and stood near the door, holding a ceiling rail for support. I looked around the carriage.

Facing me was a man with closely cropped hair and sideburns, a beard but no moustache. He looked like he was wearing straps to keep his hair on. It was the irony of it, really. All that hair and no clue what to do with it.

Further down the carriage was a man with long, lank, greasy hair. His face was screwed up in nervous tension as if he disapproved of everyone around him, felt their contempt. He was so uptight, as if he was clasping a peanut between his buttocks. Or was I projecting how I felt on to him?

I got off the train at the next stop and walked the rest of my journey to work. By the time I reached the building, I was desperate for the toilet and made a close-legged shuffle past the reception desk towards the heavy doors opposite.

I drilled the metal urinal with a laser-like, thundering arc of wee. Clouds of steam engulfed me. I crossed over to the sinks. The powerful overhead lights burned down onto the top of my head. I looked at my reflection. A giant egg, balanced on shoulders. I looked worse than this morning. Still, at least I had my lunchtime appointment to buoy me up.

The morning passed quickly enough. I was a bit edgy with anyone who seemed to be looking at my receding hair, rather than at me. But no major problems.

At one o'clock, I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair and jogged out of the office. I headed back to the metro station. Luckily, a train was just arriving. I jumped on board and realised I was standing opposite "peanut-buttocks" from earlier.

Inwardly, I screamed. At least, I hope it was inwardly. As the noise began to subside in my head, the train pulled in to my station. Another brisk jog up stairs, through the ticket barrier and 50 metres along the street brought me to my destination. My salvation. At least... I hoped so.

I pressed the buzzer outside the door. "Re-grow International," intoned a crackly voice. I looked over my shoulder to see whether anyone was watching me. "It's me. Um. I've got an appointment now," I whispered into the entryphone. "Come in," the voice crackled back. Oh, well, "to baldly go...," I thought.

Part 3 follows...