The Hair
Oh, about four years ago or so, as my husband and I were driving somewhere inconsequential, me enjoying the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, Lar rudely forced me from my reverie by suddenly reaching for my throat, thumb and index poised as if to pinch, his hand like that of a large, fleshy crab claw, and declaring, “The hell, Lor? You a werewolf?”A werewolf? The hell, Lar? And remove your repulsive digits from my person immediately.
I was, of course, confused, frightened.
Turns out my oh-so articulate husband was referring to a long, platinum neck hair that had been waving frantically in the wind along with those atop my head, no doubt illuminated by the bright spring sunshine. I quickly turned my upper body away from Lar and tugged with all my might until the hair broke free of its follicle, then shamefully tossed it out the window along with my dignity. I’ve not felt such humiliation since that fateful day.
As the years passed, I kept a close watch on my freaky little friend, that pesky platinum nuisance of which I had no control. I would oftentimes stroke my neck while surfing the 'Net or watching my children play, searching, searching for signs of its reappearance, and I was always mortified to discover its return, no matter that I’d plucked the bitch only hours before. Somehow, beyond all rhyme or reason, the hair always presented itself in exactly the same length as the day it was born, approximately one and a quarter inch long. Always. As if it didn’t simply grow, sprout from stubbly infancy to fully-grown silky adult, like a normal hair, but spontaneously birthed itself, learned to walk, got a driver’s license, graduated from college, married, had five kids, and developed a drinking problem, all in the span of twelve hours.
How is that possible? Well, it isn’t, not for an ordinary human hair. So, horrified as I was by that lupine hair, I learned to love it; I embraced it, conditioned myself to look forward to our daily plucking sessions, fooled myself into thinking it was a relaxing pastime. I even gave it a name. Then, one day, it was gone -- poof -- gone, vanished, went back to Hell from whence it came. And I was glad. And I rejoiced. I could once again wear fine gold chains without fear of entanglement. Life was good.
Tonight, however -- or, rather, this morning, I should say, since it was around three a.m. -- it returned.
I woke, as has been usual lately, after my three hours of sleep, and groggily shlumped to the kitchen to make coffee, feeling, as has been usual lately, pissed off for being awake, resentful of my sleeping husband, all cozy and snug and blissfully snoring into his pillow, and upon entering the kitchen, felt a strange tickle on the top of my right foot. Thinking it was perhaps, a spider, I flapped my foot like a cat who’d stepped in water, put my right foot in and shook it all about, then I did the Hokey Pokey and turned myself around, yet the tickle remained. Annoyed, though relieved that there was not, in fact, a spider laying eggs on my foot, I continued on my way, attempted to ignore the increasingly odd sensation as I filled the coffee decanter, placed the filter into its filter thing, and tip-toed upstairs for a cigarette. It was while climbing the stairs to my office that I realized something was terribly amiss in Ms. Loriland. Something awful was brewing...Growing...Something familiar. Something evil.
Oh, dear, sweet, fragrant Lord, no! Not again! Anything but that!
I hurriedly fell into my chair and slung my foot up onto the computer desk, put on my magnifying glasses, and inspected, with baited breath, I might add, the top of my right foot. What I saw there astounded me.
The following dialogue actually transpired:
Me: Well, hello there, Becky Sue. Fancy meeting you here…On my goddamned foot of all places.
Hair: ***
Me: I see you haven’t changed a bit.
Hair: ***
Me: Still the same length, same color.
Hair: ***
Me: Oh, don’t be coy.
Hair: ***
Me: Why do you haunt me so?
Hair: ***
Me: Are you from Hell? Have you been sent by Satan himself?
Hair: ***
Me: I hate you. Do you hear me, Becky Sue? HATE YOU!
Hair: Diabolus est abbas malum saeta. [Translation: Satan is the Father of Evil Hairs]
And with that, I plucked the demon spawn from my foot, whipped out my Bic, and lit the whore on fire. Her screams echoed throughout my office as I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed, then wept a little bit…
It's only been a few hours, and I can already feel her stirring, reanimating, buzzing beneath my skin. Three o'clock a.m. is the witching hour, and I tremble in anticipation as I survey my weaponry, the tweezers, the alcohol and Bic lighter. Tonight, Becky Sue will die, so help me God. So help me God...
posted by Ms. Lori @ 7:10 AM
10 Comments:
You showed that hair who's the boss!
I have some of those weird random hairs too. They really don't seem to understand if I rip them out by the root, they're not welcome back.
"And with that, I plucked the demon spawn from my foot, whipped out my Bic, and lit the whore on fire. Her screams echoed throughout my office as I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed, then wept a little bit…"
See, now, THIS is the reason I adore you.
Stuff like this.
Oh Mighty Lori, I bow before your superior literary talents in the hope some may rub off on me and I may one day be able to shine in the glory that is literary perfection.
Until then, however, I'll keep doing my thing.
But one day, Lori, I swear, your talent will be mine. ONE DAY!
MWA-HAHAHAHAHAHAH!
*coughs, splutters*
A-hem! Sorry about that. Not sure what came over me, entirely.
*walks away feeling stupid...*
Oh god how I've missed you.
My hair? It grows out of the side of my cheek, and it 'aint a nice silvery color. Black as death.
Thank you very much. Every mole on my body, actually, sprouts a hair.
J
This is a movie in the making! I can see that. I want a picture of your foot please. To... um... make my own diagnosis as to the... situation! Yeah, that's it!
Sounds a bit like a Stephen King short story, actually.
Andrew
To Love, Honor and Dismay
You haven't lived until you've had one on your, um, nipple.
Plucking brings tears to your eyes. Trying a small scissors was worse.
The best is, I didn't know it was there until one inebriated day at the office Christmas party, someone made the mistake of issuing me a "dare". I put my naked breasts on the photocopy machine and like I wasn't mortified enough the next day when I remembered what I did, the photo was on the office bulletin board in the photocopy room. Someone was kind enough to circle the hair with a red marker.
Love,
The Queen of One-Upmanship
Okay, I thought everyone had hair on her nipples. I thought this was NORMAL!!!
Could someone take me aside and explain the facts of life once and for all?
Stephanie, you want to hear the *grossest* incident of a stray hair ever? Like, EVER? Okay, well, I'm sorry, but I simply must...Lar once found a BLACK, coarse hair (he's blonde) on the BOTTOM of his foot. I watched in horror as he pulled and pulled and pulled out that REVOLTING cable of filth, and honest to god, I thought I was going to pass out from total revulsion.
Oh, Alice, I adore you, too. You don't need anything I might have, but if you insist...
***plink***
There, have at it, sister. My shiny sliver of talent, all for you. ;-)
Jordan, I'm getting villages of moles popping up around my parts, most notably, my face! EEK! They're very small and light-brown, but when I look down, my eye catches the one on top of my left cheekbone, and then I can't stop looking down, can't stop staring, like how you can't stop staring at Aaron Neville's mole, and then people see me looking down, all weird-eyed and shit, and, well, that sucks.
Jas, once I get the software installed, I'll be able to just throw my digital images into my stupid-ass computer, and then -- oh, THEN, you shall have the foot. You dork. ;-)
Andrew, Stephen's written some clunkers, to be sure (not many, though), but I'm pretty sure the man wouldn't bother with evil neck hair. :-)
ROBIN! OH. MY. GOOOOOOD!!!!!!! Hahahahahahahaaaaaaa!
I laugh, yet a small part of me has died for you.
Stephanie, sit down. Here, have a Coke. Would you like a cupcake? Good. Now, honey...This is a bit embarrassing for me as well, I want you to know that. But...Well...Jeepers. This is really hard. Okay. Stephanie? Steph? The man puts his peepee in the woman's woo-woo, and then he deposits his seed, then the seed grows into a flower-baby, and...
I am a dork, huh? I just realized that!
:)
i agree with the other guy- becky sue story is stephen kingesque, which is to say entertaining and creepy.
Props Ms. Lori.
I once found a 3 inch gray hair growing from my spine. i plucked it, it hasn't been back since. that was 10 years ago.
My whiskers are a different story. i feel like a billy goat.
bleat.
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