I used to have a full mop of jet black hair. Years ago.

Its fall from glory was due, I reckon, to the assault by pomades, hair sprays, vaselines, coconut oil, spit, and the like. In embracing that logic, I free my mom from rolling in her grave for the guilt of passing the dominant hereditary factor on to me.

In order to get that full mop ready for public viewing, grooming was de rigueur. The extent of primping depended on the fad of the day at that time.

It was one breezy autumn day when my coal-black shag was being blown into all four cardinal and in between points as I approached my parked car.

Not wanting to look like a newly-pranked character with electrically-shocked hair, I reached for the comb in my glove box once I started the engine.

As my right hand combed each strand into its place, my left hand eased the non-powered steering 60s car out of the parking space.

With a bold self-assurance of having perfect 20/20 vision, a quick reflex, and a strong, stable left hand of the invincible youth that I once was, I continued to groom with my right hand as the tires hit the main road.

The cool smell of autumn wafted through my opened car window as I carried on with my multi-tasking. However, while crossing an intersection, that ability was quickly cut short.

My right hand failed its grip! Down the comb fell, bouncing off my lap as it landed between my feet on the car floor.

Without even thinking about the hazards of not having my eyes on the road, I hastened to retrieve the comb from the floor with my right hand; the left hand still holding the steering wheel.

As I touched the China-made, modern-day version of the Persian invention of 5,000 years ago, I heard a slight thud. My head immediately bobbed up.

My jaw dropped, eyes widened, breath held, and pulse raced.

The white car that I was following was not at a safe distance anymore, but was now smack right in front of my car. Like a serene pool reacting to a thrown pebble, a wave of warm-sinking feeling rushed through my body when I finally realized what I had done.

I REAR-ENDED THE WHITE CAR!

I immediately put my car on park and rushed out of it.

I was met at contact point by the driver, a dapper looking young man, who appeared to be unaffected by it all.

“Hello! I am so sorry for rear-ending your car,” I said earnestly.

“It’s okay. There seems to be no damage”, he uttered genuinely as he examined his car. “My wife and I are on our way to the beach to enjoy the sea gulls, the waves, and the autumn breeze,” he continued.

“Thanks for being so understanding,” I responded as I offered my hand for a handshake.

Without hesitation, he extended his.

He went back to his car and started it. As he slowly drove off, I saw his wife turning around in her seat to wave at me with a smile on her face. It somehow bolstered the firm handshake with an additional confirmation. It is really okay!

I waved back, not just with a smile, but with such relief. No physical car damage, no one was hurt, not much traffic on our lane to create a chain reaction, and no policeman to record and report the accident, aborting an expensive fine, a hike on insurance premium, and a blemish on my driving record. And, importantly, I was very pleased to realize that there were still nice and understanding people around.

I made it home with my eyes now transfixed on the road, but with the windows closed so as not to have the wind disturb my shag. I haven’t entirely lost my vanity!

Back to the current no-full-mop-of-jet-black-hair reality. I don’t fuss about my hair anymore since I am now sporting a no-hassle buzz cut.

But that DARN iPhone! If only I can continue to resist that beguiling self-destructive temptation that it toys with me while I’m on the road!