I sat in the car this morning, engine still running, heater blasting. My boy, Leo, was already out, backpack bouncing as he headed for the school gate. I watched him go, a knot tightening in my stomach. The other parents were milling around – a few moms with yoga pants and fancy coffee cups, a couple of dads in suits, probably on their way to some office. And me, slumped in the driver’s seat, hair sticking up like a scarecrow. It’s silly, I know. A grown man, almost sixty, worried about his hair. But it was just… one of those mornings. Woke up late, the old joints aching a bit, no time to even splash water on my face properly, let alone try to tame this wild gray mess. My wife, bless her heart, left for work before the sun even thought about coming up. She’s been doing double shifts at the hospital to make ends meet lately. So it’s just me and Leo in the mornings. I could feel the sweat prickling on my back, even with the cold air outside. My shirt felt heavy, a bit wrinkled from yesterday. I looked at the rearview mirror and saw it – a frizz of white and gray, like a cloud had exploded on my head. A shiver went right through me. What would they think? Those perfect parents, with their perfect hair and their perfect lives. They’d see me and just… judge. That’s what they do, right? They see a man who probably doesn’t have it all together. So I stayed put. Leo looked back once, just a quick glance, and I gave him a weak wave. He waved back, tiny hand, and then he was gone, swallowed by the school doors. My heart felt like a lead weight in my chest. I watched the last few cars pull away, the last few parents disappear inside, and then it was just me. Sitting there. Alone. It wasn't the first time. Sometimes I’ll drop Leo off at a friend’s house, and if I haven’t had time to shave, I’ll just pull up to the curb, let him out, and wave from the car. Or if it’s raining, I’ll use that as an excuse. Always an excuse. It’s just easier than facing those eyes, you know? Those looks that size you up, weigh you down. My own father, God rest his soul, always said you gotta look the part. And I never really did. Always felt like I was wearing clothes that didn't quite fit, always a bit out of place. I think about Leo, walking into that school, probably telling his friends, "My dad dropped me off." And I wonder if he ever wishes I was one of those other dads, the ones who walk them to the door, maybe even carry their backpack for a bit. The ones who look like they have everything under control. I want to be that dad for him. I really do. But some days, it feels like I’m just trying to keep my head above water, and my hair is the least of my worries, until it becomes the biggest. After a while, I pulled out of the parking lot. The sun was getting higher, starting to burn away the morning mist. The streets were quiet. I drove aimlessly for a bit, the car still warm around me. Felt like I was carrying something heavy, something I couldn’t put down. Something that started with a bad hair day and ended with me feeling like a coward. (Or worse, like a fool.) My wife will come home tonight, tired from her shift. She’ll ask how Leo’s day was, and I’ll tell her, "Good, good." And she won’t ask if I got out of the car. She just assumes I do. And I won’t tell her. Not because I want to lie, but because I don't want to see that look in her eyes, the one that says, "What is wrong with you?" It’s not just the hair, really. It’s the feeling of not being enough. Not for Leo, not for my wife, not for myself. It’s the way the days just seem to run into each other, and I’m just… here. This house, this life, it all feels like it’s slipping through my fingers sometimes, like sand. And I just don’t know how to stop it. Or even if I can.