I'm the poster boy for Propecia. It's amazing.

Host: The barber shop was half-lit, its mirrors fogged from the evening rain and the steam of coffee brewing in the corner. The smell of aftershave, wet coats, and old vinyl mixed in the air. Outside, the streetlight flickered, its glow casting a thin halo across the window that read “Frank’s Cuts — Since 1973.”

It was late, the kind of late that makes honesty easier. The chairs were empty, the scissors asleep on the counter. Only the faint hum of a radio filled the silence — an old interview replaying Joe Lando’s words: “I’m the poster boy for Propecia. It’s amazing.”

Jack sat in the chair, his grey eyes fixed on his reflection — on the thinning line above his forehead. Jeeny stood beside him, arms crossed, her expression soft but curious, like someone watching someone else wrestle with more than just hair.

Jeeny: “You’re really taking that quote personally, aren’t you?”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Why wouldn’t I? Joe Lando says it like a victory speech — ‘I’m the poster boy for Propecia.’ Imagine being proud of turning your vanity into a campaign.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not vanity. Maybe it’s just survival. You men act like losing hair is losing identity.”

Jack: “It is, sometimes. You grow up thinking confidence has a face — and one day that face starts changing without your permission. Then comes a pill that says, ‘Take me, and I’ll give you your youth back.’ Sounds amazing, doesn’t it?”

Host: The rain drummed harder against the windows, each drop echoing like memory. Jeeny leaned against the mirror, her reflection overlapping his — two faces blurred by light and regret.

Jeeny: “You make it sound tragic. Maybe it’s just… funny. We live in a world where even hair has a price tag. If science can give you something you’ve lost, why not take it?”

Jack: “Because science always comes with fine print. Every ‘miracle’ has a warning label. And sometimes, we don’t fix insecurity — we feed it.”

Jeeny: (gently) “You think Joe Lando was insecure?”

Jack: “I think he was honest. He said it’s amazing — not that it’s noble. He didn’t lie. It is amazing that we can change what used to be inevitable. But it’s also amazing how afraid we are of letting things go.”

Host: Jack’s voice lowered, his hands fidgeting with the cape around his neck. The mirror caught the glint of a single hair drifting down — silver against black.

Jeeny watched, her eyes searching his face the way someone looks at an old photograph — both nostalgic and unsure what changed.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that human? To want control? We fight gravity, aging, disease — why should hair be any different? If there’s a cure for insecurity, maybe it’s medicine.”

Jack: “Or marketing. You think Propecia sells hope or fear?”

Jeeny: “Both. Because that’s what we buy most.”

Host: The radio in the corner crackled, shifting from the interview to an old pop song — something about time and mirrors. The barber’s scissors caught the light, and Jack reached for one, twirling it absently between his fingers.

Jack: “You know what bothers me most? It’s not the hair. It’s the message. That aging is failure. That every line, every loss, needs a cure. We’re rewriting the definition of ‘enough.’”

Jeeny: “But you’re the one sitting in the chair, Jack.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Touché.”

Host: The rain softened, turning to a hiss that blended with the sound of the clippers. Jeeny walked behind him, brushing the cape, tidying what was already tidy — her movements deliberate, gentle, the way people touch something fragile without meaning to fix it.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe it’s not about looks? Maybe it’s about memory — wanting to look like the version of yourself who still believed in something.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe. Or maybe we just can’t forgive ourselves for changing.”

Host: The light from the street shifted, the bulb outside buzzing, casting brief shadows that moved across their faces like waves. Jeeny’s eyes were calm, but her voice carried the edge of something truer than comfort.

Jeeny: “You know, I think what’s amazing isn’t the drug. It’s that we can joke about it. That we can say, ‘Yeah, I need help,’ without shame. We’re learning to laugh at our vanity instead of hiding from it. That’s progress.”

Jack: “Or surrender. We used to fight nature. Now we bargain with it.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that still fighting — just smarter?”

Jack: “No. It’s… pretending.”

Host: The word hung in the air, heavier than it sounded. Jack’s reflection stared back — not proud, not ashamed, just thoughtful.

Jeeny picked up a small bottle of hair tonic, turning it in her hands as if it were a relic. The label was shiny, the promise bold: “Confidence in a bottle.”

Jeeny: “Do you remember when your father went bald?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Yeah. He used to say he didn’t lose hair, he just ‘gained more face.’”

Jeeny: “And did he ever take a pill for it?”

Jack: “No. He wore it like armor. Maybe that’s why I never forgot his laugh.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the cure isn’t in bottles, Jack. Maybe it’s in acceptance. Maybe Joe Lando’s pride wasn’t about his hair — maybe it was about owning the story.”

Jack: “Owning the story, huh? Even if it’s sponsored?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. Because at least he told it himself.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, its hands moving with the slow grace of resignation. The shop had grown quiet, except for the soft rhythm of the rain outside — now more like a whisper than a storm.

Jack stood, running his hand through what was left of his hair, and laughed, not bitterly, but with a kind of surrender that sounded almost like peace.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe amazing isn’t about fixing what’s gone. Maybe it’s about daring to talk about what’s leaving.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To say, ‘This is me — with or without the cure.’ That’s real courage.”

Jack: “So, what? I should become the poster boy for acceptance?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Why not? It suits you better than Propecia.”

Host: The neon sign outside flickered, the light washing over them in soft, blue pulses, like the breath of the night itself. Jack put on his coat, zipping it slowly, the sound sharp in the still air.

He turned toward Jeeny, his eyes calm now, the storm behind them quieted.

Jack: “You know… maybe Joe Lando was right. It is amazing. Not the drug. The fact that we can laugh about needing it.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes us human — we turn insecurity into conversation.”

Host: The rain had stopped, and the street reflected the neon glow like a pool of liquid glass. Jeeny watched him leave, his figure disappearing into the wet night, his silhouette carrying both loss and lightness.

The radio played a slow, old tune — something about time, pride, and grace.

And in that quiet, fading light, it was clear: being the poster boy for anything was never the point.

The real miracle was not Propecia, but the acceptance of a man, standing before his reflection, and finally calling it — amazing.