When my neighbor Trudy Canowitz died at ninety-three, I was heartbroken. Of course I was going to miss her kindness and warmth—but I was also going to miss her driveway. Especially her driveway.

I’ve decided not to mind that I’m losing my hair. Not that it’s really a choice. And I very much do mind. So maybe what I’m trying to explain is why I’m not going to do anything about it. Although I wish I could.

I first met red light therapy in a gym bathroom, where all great romances begin. Above the urinals was a poster of a man whose pores looked like polished apples. “ARE YOU TIRED OF BEING A SAD POTATO?” the poster asked. “BATHE IN PHOTOBIOMODULATION.” The model’s face glowed the specific shade of emergency escape signage. His smile said, “I don’t get sick anymore,” and also, “I definitely sell crypto.”

The whole thing stemmed from me trying to have sex with Carson Constance Abernathy III. For the gay male readers, I’ll save you the trouble of reading further: he wasn’t attractive.

I settled into the sofa, preparing to gorge myself on the brainless mind-candy of a trashy magazine—specifically, a deep dive into whether Carrot Top or Kathy Griffin was the “truer” redhead. It was the kind of low-stakes feud I lived for. When the phone rang, I didn’t even look at the caller ID. I just crabbed, “Whoever this is, make it quick. I’m in the middle of a ginger-war.”