“Not funny at all,” I get out without choking.

“It must have been terrible.”

Blessing grabs his hairpiece and crams it back on his head. Amazingly, it fits like a jigsaw puzzle piece onto his own hair, which rims his head like a bad paint job.

“All of February my sales were down to nothing. I’ve lost all my confidence. Every time someone comes into the store I imagine this thing,” he says, pointing to his head, “slipping down over one eye. After this happened, even the janitors were laughing at me.”

I lean back against the wall and feel the bare skin of my own bald spot. The poor guy can’t laugh at himself.

If this had happened to me, I would have spent the rest of my life telling this story. Instead, Blessing wants to sue.

“Actually,” I say, “it looks incredible. You just popped it into place without a mirror and you can’t even tell you have it on.”

Blessing winces as he pats his head selfconsciously.

“It ought to,” he complains, “it cost fifteen hundred dollars.”

Hell’s bells. No wonder he’s pissed. For that kind of money you’d think they could have thrown in a bottle of Super Glue.

“Where did you buy it?” I ask, remembering there is a wig shop downtown that caters, judging by its windows to African-Americans. I doubt if Mr. Blessing bought it there.

“At a place in Memphis called Wiggy’s,” he says, handing me a wad of papers.

“There was an ad in the Sunday Commercial Appeal which guaranteed you couldn’t tell the difference.”

I look through the documents, searching for a con tract. All I find are pages of testimonials from satisfied customers. There are pictures of wigs, and, curious, I look for one that covers up a bald spot. Wiggy’s! I don’t blame him for going out of town. It will be hard to keep my mouth shut. Since we are basically salesmen our selves, lawyers love a good story.