What’s going on underneath it all

I took my Thursday morning walk through the woods with the ghost of George Washington.

I said, “You seem to be walking with an air of despair. What’s up?”

The ghost of G.W. said, “My malady is thus: though I am long dead, I suffer from the shame of a bald pate.” He pulled off his wig, exposing his hairless situation.

I took off my baseball cap, presenting my barren similarity.

We both leaned forward, touching scalps, laughing like coyotes in the moonlight.