The Scar Plays

(Written by Mark yesterday in the airport. I'm posting because he doesn't have a connection.)

There's a scene in Oceans 13 when Matt Damon, running some kind of scam on Ellen Barkin, adopts an elaborate disguise that includes a huge, attention-drawing nose. Damon's cohorts George Clooney and Brad Pitt like the scheme's set-up but think he could make it work without the off-putting schnoz. Damon insists that the prosthetic is an essential part of the scam, and I loved his explanation for its con-artist brevity:

“The nose plays.”

So here I go to the World Series of Poker, sans get-up, but I have an idea that there might be some kind of edge in this brain cancer business. Not a big overpowering advantage, just something potentially distracting, like the hoodie-and-sunglasses look that so many 20-something players adopt, or the low-cut cleavage advertising that a lot of women employ at the table, warranted or not.

Normally I go out of my way to avoid any mention or notice of my health when I play. I don't want the distraction myself, such as a bunch of questions from regular players and dealers who might then (genuinely or not) feel compelled to ask how I'm doing every time I sit down. So I almost always wear a baseball cap, give a noncommittal “great” when someone asks how I'm doing and try to just shut up and play my cards.

But in Vegas, where I'm not going to know anybody, I've been thinking about going the other way.

Michelle and I talked about making Team Mark t-shirts that, at one point, were going to include a sort of gruesome photo of me from shortly after my hospital stay, with some kind of slogan along the lines of “I just had brain surgery, what's your excuse?”

That plan didn't come together, but I decided to go for a more subtle suggestion of my “condition” after all. Since my first surgery last November I've been keeping my hair buzzed -- for one thing it'll be easier to deal with if it starts falling out one of these days as predicted. Also I've had the same Bobby Sherman 'do since 1975; it seemed time for a change.

Lately though my hair has grown out just enough to lay down and cover my surgery scar, practically stylishly. So yesterday, on the way home from the bank, I decided to stop at the barber and buzz it back down to my standard 3.5-clipper-setting length. That's short enough to draw attention to the C-shaped scar across my right temple.

I'm not sure even now what effect I'm going for with this move: maybe star-struck, vaguely sickly, golly-gosh innocent small-town doofus who will be as surpirsed as you are when I take your chips. How can I possibly pull that off? Acting!

I can't imagine the haircut will make a huge difference. But who knows. If the scar plays in even one hand, I'll be happy.