Hair

To You -

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Hi. How are you? Good. So, yesterday something happened that got me thinking. And like all of these really dumb blog things, this is equally, if not more important. I had just got done swimming at the gym and when I got out of the pool I felt something intertwined within the fingers of my left hand. It was a hair. A 4-inch random hair that I had apparently picked up when I was looking for spare change in the pool. Just a hair. Nothing else. Not a tampon or a syringe. Just a hair. And since I had been in a pool one can only assume it was a clean hair . . . what with the chlorine and what not. Well as I felt it on my hand and then noticed it, I went into a bit of a wild panic in order to get rid of it. Like when a moth if flying around your head. A random hair can sometimes be like a cobweb . . . you know it is there and pull furiously to get it off, but you can still feel it. Finally I got it off. And as my heartbeat began to slow and after triple checking for more stragglers, I sat down in the sauna and poured a whiskey. Breathe . . .

You see, I hate hairs. Wait. Let me correct that, I hate random hairs. I really do. I have a fear of them. The random hair sits right up there with spiders and ear wax. But it is just hair . . . which when you think about it, is very odd. It is not a dirty diaper or an old pair of old, stinky UGG boots. It is just a hair. I have lots of hair. Every second Monday when I take a shower and shampoo my hair, I don't find myself going crazy. When I go to get a haircut and walk into the mecca of random hairs, I do not swallow a bottle of Advil and chase it with the blue liquid that the combs are sitting in in order to numb the pain. When I see a hairbrush - flush with a family of dead hairs tangled in a sea of dandruff and lice - I don't reach for a razor blade. It is just a hair. Gross, sure. But why the freakout? It doesn't make sense. One would think if a single random hair would make me freak, a million would make for a complete meltdown. But it doesn't. I once got intimate with a girl. As we were making out in the Whataburger Drive Thru, I ran my fingers through her burlap hair. Then the car honked behind us and we had to move up and my Snow CD skipped. But, when I was there with a fistful of hair and in my hand and happiness in my pants, I didn't go crazy. No, I didn't. It felt nice. I didn't go bananas. And I have no fear of petting a dog or of dental floss. 

The elusive, stray hair. The one that got away. A mystery.

I don't like poop. So naturally if you add a bunch more and throw me into the bowels of an outhouse, into the doo-doo of doo-doo, I'd freak. More plop = more freak. That makes sense.

More hair = less freak. Weird-O-Rama.

Goodbye.

Tyler