You’re a Fathead – One Dollar Please

Yesterday, I paid a buck for someone to call me a “fathead.” But it’s not as bad as it sounds.

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a soft lump about as large as a quarter under the hair and skin on the back of my head, an inch or so from the top. Yesterday, I went to the doctor to get it checked out.

I was thinking he would lance it and drain out whatever was in there – plasma, pus, fluid, blood, perhaps some of my brains – sew it back up and I’d be outta there in oh, say a half-hour or so.

No such luck. He said I have a “lipoma,” aka a fatty tumor that would continue getting larger until it’s perhaps the diameter of a baseball (hence the “fathead” designation). So I’d have to have a surgeon take care of it. The earliest appointment I could get with one of the two surgeons he recommended was next Friday afternoon.

So I have to walk around with a fatty lump on the back of my head for a week. Since it’s under the hair, I think I’ll get a haircut next Thursday to facilitate matters. I’ll need to advise the barber to be a little extra careful around the lipoma or he’s gonna have a messy set of clippers after he’s done. Ewww.

The wife, who always wants to accompany me on visits like this (I think she has a hidden fascination with watching oozing stuff coming out of my head), asked the doctor what causes it. Before he could answer, I tossed in my opinion, that when the wife talks too much, the head cracks a little and the brain oozes out.

Doc did an “ay-yi-yi” and walked out chuckling. The wife just glared at me.

Oh, the dollar? That was the cost of parking.