It’s Katrina, my trainee, on the phone, asking if I would come and see Mr Barrington. I’m forming a picture as I make my way down the corridor to the out-patient clinic. Mid-fifties, light grey suit, wet blue eyes, sandy hair, moist handshake, hint of a stammer. I saw him a couple of weeks ago. There before me, as I enter the clinic room, is a middle-aged man, the same suit, the same eyes. But this man is completely hairless. His head glistens under the strip lighting. There are tears filling his eyes and he is sweating profusely. He looks…
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