I have a tail. Or, well...

I wish I did.

No, I'm serious. This seems to be a new thing, or maybe a thing I didn't know was a thing - but it's certainly a thing.

You might first be wondering if I am a furry.

I need to inform you: I most certainly am not.

<says seriously, like real serious, but knows it sounds suspicious - so tries again, this time with more umph>

No, I'm not a furry.

_{(not that there's anything wrong with that)}

But, wearing a tail does something to me.

With a tail, I feel whole. Seen. Bold, capable. I'm no NPC. Wearing a tail straddles confidence and humility. It makes me feel invincible: a tail becomes my superhero's cape.

<Realizes superhero capes are probably heavier than they look. Stares in mirror. Wonders whether muscles are being eaten away by GLP-1s. Takes more creatine>

Forgive me if this isn't clear; to be honest, it's all relatively new, and I'm figuring it out along with you.

I don't believe I'd ever worn a tail before last Halloween.

A neighbor's outdoor party in Vermont required a costume, and my attempt at a Royal Tenenbaum–style tennis outfit wasn't cutting it; the shorts lacked October warmth, and the fit was too dad bod.

As usual, Sarah had a plan.

A lion costume for herself, a two-part affair with a headdress of furry brown ears and - separately - a tail, amber yellow with an orange tuft.

And so a solution formed: we'd both be the lion, dressed in tans and browns. She'd wear the ears, and I'd wear the tail.

The tail didn't seem much: twelve inches of cheap fabric and synthetic stuffing from Amazon.

Until I clip it to my belt.

An immediate calmness, as if a shot of anti-anxiety medicine, or the zen of a tea ceremony. My shoulders no longer slouch. My stride lengthens. I have X-ray vision. I can read minds. I can disappear, stop time, race at an atomic pace.

I'm no lion. I've got a tail.

At the party, near the keg.

"Nice tail."

"Thanks," I say, as though I've always had one.

Since the party, the tail has been left in a drawer, underneath socks and shirts, not to keep it out of sight, nor to keep it safe - or so I tell myself.

I don't have a strong urge to wear the tail, but I'll admit I'm comforted knowing exactly where it is. Accessible in the event of an emergency - of a crime caper to stop, a cat in a tree, a damsel in distress, a good deed to be done.

Recently, I've started wearing my hair differently. Warrior-style to be exact, or so they say. At least that's what Sarah says, who cuts it every four weeks or so.

The Warrior boasts short sides and a healthy flop on top, plus - for balance - length in the back.

A contemporary mullet.

Or, well, a tail, if you will.

On the street, an old friend.

"Did you do something to your hair? Looks good, suits you."

"Thanks," I say, knowing the Warrior works because of the tail.

Maybe that's why some grow beards. And why others get tattoos. Or why some buy cowboy boots and why John Travolta now wears a beret.

Maybe some know exactly who they are, while others require some flair, some statement, something to bring it all together.

Something they didn't even know they needed until it arrives: a tail to straighten the spine, to provide an imaginary superhero's cape, all while the wind blows easily through their hair.