“Did you sign any thing?” I ask.

“Something, I think,” Blessing says, reaching for the papers on the desk between us.

“The salesman who sold me mine said his had never slipped even a fraction of an inch in the two years he had worn it.”

I study Blessing’s hair, marveling at the transformation. He must have felt as if someone had somehow suddenly pulled his pants down. I tell myself I’d never wear a toupee, but if I looked like this guy, I’d think about it, especially if I were in his business. He’s right.

Appearance is important. You don’t go into a clothing store to discuss the meaning of life.

“Is there a booklet on how to care for it or some kind of warranty?” For that kind of money, you surely get more than testimonials.

“I know I got some other stuff,” Blessing says, riffling futilely through the sheaf of advertisements, “but I can’t find it.”

Clients never bring in the right papers.

“I want you to look some more at home,” I urge him.

“They could be important.”

He assures me that he will, and after I let him wring his hands for a few more minutes, I escort him to the elevators I’m not ready to sign up to argue this case at the U.S. Supreme Court, but I’ll take a look at his papers I’ve had worse cases. I might even get a free wig out of it.

2

After work I swing by Rainey’s house to eat dinner and get the scoop on Shane Norman and his Christian Life church. Until this past winter, my girlfriend’s religious beliefs were as indecipherable as my own, but after having had a benign lump in her breast removed, Rainey, to my surprise, and not a little to my dismay, has gotten that old-time religion. As I pull up in front of her modest frame house, I try to rein in my feelings on this subject, as it is becoming a sore point between us.