Hair Today

It happens with absolutely no regularity, no rhythm, no rhyme. A single, one-inch hair appears somewhere on my body that didn’t exist yesterday. Just one. Not a thatch. A single hair, in a single location, at an absurd length where it didn’t exist the day before.

Once? Twice a year? Eyebrow. Shoulder. Now my neck. Today. Out of nowhere.

The neck one is especially suspicious because I shave regularly, so there is no way it survives contact with my safety razor. None. Then one day — today — whammo, I have this errant hair.

I need to start a journal.

Let this be my first entry.

How do I discover this errant hair, you ask?

I’ve just rescued a honeybee from one of our cats — a story for another day — and brought it out to the front yard to give it some water and flowers. I put the bee down and my neighbour walks up the sidewalk, bouncing her grandbaby, trying to get her to sleep.

We start talking in soothing tones for the benefit of the clearly annoyed and not-about-to-sleep-ever baby.

As we’re talking, I notice a tickle on my neck.

My hand investigates and finds a very long, single hair.

It can wrap around my finger.

I tug it.

My neighbour stares at my neck, then pretends the baby needs her attention.

This can’t be happening.

I tug it again.

The baby looks at my neck. Concern written across her tiny face. She will likely never sleep again. Trauma will follow her for the rest of her days.

Grandma turns her away from the hideous tugging neck hair and bounces her more aggressively.

“It’s okay,” she coos.

I try to pluck the hair and play it off like it never happened.

The root is deep.

It won’t release.

The baby cries.

The grandmother mutters something about leaving the kettle on and quickly walks up the street.

A downy woodpecker is sitting on the limb of a tree in my yard.

It eyes my neck hair.

What a fine addition to its nest it would make.

I tuck the hair into my shirt and walk back to the house in shame.

I know the neighbours will come with pitchforks.