The Hair

Our bathroom floor is a stark white expanse as far as the eye can see; a salt flat of unbrokenness, devoid of respite and undulation. I lay in the center of it, my face pressed ungracefully against the tiles, a car crash of awkward planes. The tears pooling beneath my skin, and my mouth open, dry, panting slowly. The hair reclined inches from me, filling my vision. A long strand, but curled and kinked and tawny. I noted the direction it swept, the tapering of the ends, the thick bulb where it had connected to the skin. I noted the gloss of it, the hue of it, the fractures and frailty and you in it. Mentally, I fumbled a marker from my pocket, I traced the lifeless thing in the tiles, demonstrated to the coroner how the event had happened- it was grasped here, strangled there, torn from the head in this direction- like it was a victim in the mess. I ignored the criminal in it, the accusation it radiated, the guilt in my heart. I tried so hard to pretend it was just another hair, a beautiful hair, that I’d stroked and loved and kept in a locket of meaning by my heart- but in the end, this was a hair full of secrets and spells and whispers in the dark- and you’re a blonde, aren’t you? So why was it here, why was it in our bathroom? And, where are you?

By Danielle K. Day

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