This morning, for the first time in eighty-seven years, I parted my hair from left to right, and everything instantly changed. I glowed as I used to glow, as a young man, growing up in the suburbs outside Chicago, discovering love, discovering excitement in every living thing, and though I could not ascertain, for the first fifteen minutes or so, why exactly this new glow had emerged, I instantly saw in the mirror that I was a new man. My eyes were bright blue, as they have always been, but the blue seemed brighter, crisper, like skies cleared after a downpour, and my skin was still the skin of an aged person, with laugh lines around my eyes and deep furrows, like corduroy, on my brow, but it had a new luminous quality. And my teeth seemed whiter. Why am I smiling? I wondered. What has changed? I had risen with the sun, as I always do, and had made my morning coffee—decaf, as per the doctor’s orders—but in the mirror, when I got out of the shower and began my morning routine, I saw someone I had never seen before. He was me. Or he reminded me of myself. And yet, at the same time, he was someone I had never seen before. Someone I seemed to have been searching for all my life.