The HairOh, 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.
Me: I see you haven’t changed a bit.
Me: Still the same length, same color.
Me: Oh, don’t be coy.
Me: Why do you haunt me so?
Me: Are you from Hell? Have you been sent by Satan himself?
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...