"Hmm."
Treating baldness was a considerably challenging field even in 21st-century modern medicine.
Although I was one of those blessed with a full head of hair, so I never studied it specifically, I had a very close friend who started losing the battle of the balding crown early on, so I heard a lot from him.
As one might expect from a university hospital professor, he was quite academic.
"What's the matter?"
"Please be quiet for a moment. There's more than one or two methods, you see."
"I-Is that so? Had I known it would be like this, I should have come to you before cutting off that donkey's genitals."
"You should have. Anyway, please just stay put while I think."
"Ah, understood."
Poor donkey...
It would have been nice if the sacrifice of that guy had held some meaning, but according to my friend, the hair loss doctor, such bizarre treatments were rather pointless.
On the contrary.
If the testosterone from the donkey's testicles were to be introduced incorrectly, it would only have adverse effects.
Hormones, surprisingly, are quite cross-species compatible, you see.
'Anyway... The current trend in hair transplantation would be transplanting intact follicular units, but that's impossible here.'
I had to consider the technological limitations.
It would be great if I could implant intact follicles.
It would, but how would I harvest them?
I don't have the equipment, you see.
Of course, if I were truly a master of hair transplantation, I might be able to create something here, but that's unrealistic.
Then, I needed to consider some other method...
"Hmm. It hurts?"
There was once a procedure called scalp reduction that was quite popular.
Actually, what is hair loss, really?
Isn't it the creation of empty space on the scalp?
Then, some genius thought, if we just remove that empty space, it should be fine.
"It might hurt. What do you think would happen if your face ended up like this?"
"I would be extremely depressed and very angry."
"Exactly."
Calling them a genius is one thing, but they seemed more like a 19th-century mind in the 21st century, now that I think about it here.
Really, how could anyone have such a simple-minded idea?
Anyway, I heard it's obsolete now, and running a simulation on Liston's forehead immediately showed me why it became obsolete.
Cutting out the empty space made the remaining area look somewhat fuller, but...
Since only a peninsula-shaped section of hair remained in the first place, if you cut and stitched that, the resulting face would be utterly horrifying.
"Can't you let me go?"
"Oh... Sure."
He already looks intimidating now, but if I made him look like that, he'd seem like a villain on a whole other level.
This won't do.
Okay.
Scalp reduction rejected.
Then, the remaining option is, of course, scalp flap surgery.
"For minor hair loss, this should actually be sufficient..."
"What did you say?"
"I'm talking to myself. Don't you want the treatment?"
"No, no..."
"There's one method left."
"W-What is it?"
To think such a strong person like Liston could look so vulnerable.
It would be so great if this moment could continue, but...
Dealing with a hair-loss-stricken Liston whose patience has run out is too dangerous, so I decided to pause for a moment.
Looking at Liston, who was watching me with a pitiful expression, I pointed to the back of my own head.
"We harvest some hair from here and transplant it here, like this."
"You mean putting your hair on my forehead?"
"No, no. I don't think that would work."
"Why not? You have plenty, don't you? Just give me a little."
I gave a bad example.
As punishment for that, I had to witness before my very eyes the ghost that appears demanding, "Give me your leg."
And of all times, I hadn't yet explained immune reactions, so how on earth was I supposed to persuade him...
'I can do it.'
After a brief moment of worry, my bullshitting ability proved to be insane, as expected.
"My hair is black, and yours is blond, isn't it? If we transplant this... wouldn't you look like a monster?"
"Ah. Damn it. Then should we use Colin's or Alfred's hair?"
"No, no. Your own hair is best. You probably can't see the back of your head well, but your hair volume is fine. It's plenty enough."
"Oh... Is that so? Do I have a lot of hair?"
Objectively speaking, he doesn't.
Male pattern baldness primarily involves the recession of the hairline at the temples, creating an M-shaped pattern and sometimes a peninsula, but it's not like male pattern baldness is the only type, right?
As one ages, everything tends to deteriorate, and unfortunately, hair is no exception.
It simply means the hair volume decreases.
"Yes, you have a lot."
But well...
I've been lying constantly since coming to the 19th century, so why wouldn't I tell a lie for survival's sake?
Lies of this nature were something I could do literally as easily as breathing.
"Oh ho! Then do it right away."
"Hmm."
It's literally a white lie, this one...
While I could do that endlessly for the current situation, lying about future outcomes is a bit risky.
There's a saying in our English proverbs, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions," and especially when a doctor starts lying about the prognosis, it often leads straight to hell.
It usually concerns the patient's future...
In this case, it didn't seem like Liston would die from the hair loss treatment itself, so the hell that would break loose would likely be directed at me, the one who performed the treatment.
No, wait.
'As things stand now, it's 100% certain.'
I know how to do it.
But I've never actually done it before.
Out of vague anxiety about the future, I did learn it back when I was a military doctor or at a conference—I was lucky enough to be on the professor track, you see.
Then I got hit by a truck and died, but anyway, the point is I have no experience.
"Why are you humming?"
"I think I need to practice a bit first."
"Practice...? Why? Haven't you done it before?"
"I haven't done it."
"In Joseon..."
"I came here when I was young, you see. So I couldn't have done it. But it's definitely a viable method. Cutting from the back and attaching it here."
"Hmm... But you're saying you haven't done it?"
Liston, who seemed to have been thinking about escaping hair loss immediately, looked noticeably disappointed.
"No."
"Well, then, there's nothing to be done."
But Liston was a doctor, after all.
And one with such a crazy spirit of experimentation that he had always pushed for innovation until now.
Well, mostly thanks to me, but even so, the fact that he walked that path alongside me is tremendous.
And it seemed this time was no exception.
Even though it was his own affair, and his own hair problem at that, he quickly returned to an objective attitude.
"Then shall we practice?"
"We should."
"Let's go."
"Where to?"
"There."
The place Liston pointed to was the dissection practice room guarded by our chef.
I immediately shook my head.
It wasn't because the dissection room was unpleasant.
I shouldn't think about the old dissection room anymore.
True to his origins as a chef, he was good at draining blood from the corpses and pickling them in formalin, so most of the corpses showed little signs of decay.
Of course, for surgery practice, we do receive a steady supply of fresh corpses from the police, so there are some in a state of decay, but...
"Why not?"
"We can't just look at the pure technique. We need to see if the transplanted hair actually stays there and grows."
"Ah... I see. Damn it... Then, prisoners?"
"Hmm... Well, this is purely my opinion, but it shouldn't be dangerous. It just looks odd."
It's a hair transplant, right?
It's not like flap surgery, where it mostly works if you just connect the blood vessels.
Moreover, flap surgery, while difficult, was a procedure I had performed often in my past life, so practicing on corpses was just a matter of adapting to changes in tools and environment, but this...
This is profound.
In a way, I wonder if there's any other surgery that could have a more significant impact on a person's life.
Because of that, I didn't want to do it on the prisoners.
Shouldn't those guys just drink their own urine or something?
Or we could make them poison detectors for us.
Besides, no matter how many prisoners there are, they aren't as numerous as the overflowing poor in the East End.
"Then... are you planning to recruit volunteers?"
"Yes. People with cases as similar as possible to yours. If we offer compensation, I think it should work, right?"
"Hmm... That would probably get better cooperation. Similar to me... The case means..."
Ah.
I messed up.
I mentioned the peninsula.
"Damn it... Now that you mention it, it looks like Italy."
Fortunately, instead of getting angry, Liston just let out a sigh of lament.
Someday, this karma will surely come back to me...
But what can I do?
What's important to me is the present.
When these lunatics are creating smog and calling it my doing, shouldn't I have at least one thing to enjoy?
Even if it's a pleasure with a predictable end, there's no helping it.
"Right, shall we gather some people then? If we put out a request with the police, they'll probably round them up quickly."
"I suppose so. But will those fellows bother to gather bald people? They'll probably find it annoying."
"After all we've done for them so far..."
"That's true."
The police commissioner is practically our business partner.
The detectives frequently receive their share of bribes too.
And haven't we solved murder cases for them as well?
Especially the Count—if it weren't for me, he'd be dead by now.
So I thought they would naturally help with something like this, but...
Seeing the people gathered the next day, my thoughts changed a bit.
"Why... have you come?"
The Commissioner himself had come.
Detective Damian, whom I hadn't seen in a while, was also here. While he's also a partner, he's more of a man who cares about appearances compared to Inspector Jamie, so I usually only received meeting reports from him, but he came in person.
There were also several other prominent figures from London present.
Of course, it wasn't just them; there were also middle-class restaurant owners, doctors from our hospital, detectives, and poor people.
They are all citizens of London, but to say they are all the same... they use different words and live in different places. The thing that bound them all together was...
"I'm also losing my hair."
It was hair loss.
Was the saying, like the song 'Guantanamera', true—that bald people easily become friends?
Even people who would normally frown upon seeing the lower classes immediately were just looking at me with hopeful faces.
"Dr. Pyeongsi! Please help me too!"
These people had no hair, but I was left speechless, and as I was just standing there looking, someone started shouting.
The crowd was large and densely packed, making it hard to distinguish one person from another. After searching for a while, one person caught my eye.
"Dr. Pyeongsi! Please!"
He looked clearly poor.
The kind that seemed to have ditchwater dripping down...
But since most of the poor here were like that, it wasn't particularly noteworthy.
The reason he caught my eye was for one reason only.
'Did he climb up... a mulberry tree?'
I'm not Jesus...
To go up that high like Zacchaeus the tax collector.
I was struck by how powerful the desire for hair loss treatment could be.
"Brother, what should we do? We did announce it was for practice, right?"
"Yes, I clearly said it was hair loss treatment practice."
"Then why..."
"You probably wouldn't understand."
When I asked Liston, he muttered with a very serious face.
"Those with hair can't possibly understand."