Mailmen Have Bad Hair, Too

In the middle of the afternoon, our buzzer rang. It was the mailman, so I did the self-employed person's mad dash for pants and a brassiere, checked my face for food and sleep gunk, and answered the door.



"Can you sign for this?" he said, handing me a pen.

"Sure. Sorry for the Self-Employed Bedhead thing I've got going on here," I said, miming an outline of my hair with his pen.

I don't know why I feel compelled to apologize for my appearance to delivery people, but I do. I apologize to the stranger who has probably seen far worse on their daily route, and then I internally scold myself for lacking confidence, and then I make an empty promise to always have decent hair, and then, if it's already been a bad day, I eat chocolate to feel better about failing at life. This is how I do, but today my mailman did something remarkable that stopped my self-battery short.

He lifted his hat up off his head to reveal three inches of high, jumbled, sweaty red hair.

"No worries," he said, tilting his head so I could get a better look. "I've got Mailman Hat Head."

He doesn't know it, but that was a deeply generous act, and now he sits on my fantasy roster somewhere between Louis CK and that woman who used to sell me muffins at the mall.