Girl Shedding

shame and reckoning and trying to clean up that which is designed to be ephemeral anyway

He told me he’s been finding my hair everywhere; I’m shedding like a dog. We fall asleep and in the morning I wake before him so I can collect all I’ve left. There’s a pop culture present to to girl shedding: The morning shed. The removing of your hair rollers, sheet mask, mouth tape, face tape, eye mask, pimple patch, contouring chin strap etc. Fall asleep like this to wake up like this. Last night I slept in my makeup. Now I crawl across the floor, naked, and look for the reflective glimmers of wayward strands.

I wrap each hair around my pointer finger and hold it flat to my palm with the rest of my fingers like I’m stringing a harp. Discovering each hair is a relief; I won’t be embarrassed, I won’t leave anything behind. But as my knees drag across the ground, the hairs just keep appearing. If I'm to finish the job before he wakes I have to be more efficient. Abandoning my instrument, I resort to sweeping my palm across the floor of his bedroom, gathering my long hair along with the dust and surprise of a boy’s floor until my hands are grey. Standing, I am happy he is still asleep. I see myself reflected in the closet mirror and rest one hand on my abdomen. The other hand clutches a mass of brown hair so substantial it looks like a whip and sings like one. It sways in my grip. I think about all the other places my hair has been. Other sheets, other floors.

My free hand moves up my neck, to my scalp. I squeeze a handful of hair and remember my high school trick. I would rip out large chunks of hair to show off my pain tolerance and perhaps subconsciously hint at my latent masochism. I liked the look of shock on my peers faces when I would produce 20 long hairs I had ripped straight from my head without flinching. I stopped that method of exhibitionism in 11th grade when I discovered subtlety. I drop my hand and shift my eyes to him in the mirror, his breathing is loud even under the drone of the air conditioning unit lodged in his window. I walk to him and lower myself to his body.

Under his neck, I see a pinned hair. I reach for it and pull. And pull. And pull. It seems to go on forever. A new trick perhaps: girl magician’s endless strand of hair. The brown hair turns black and then grey and then white until the color vanishes entirely. But I can still feel the tension; I am still pulling. My hair whip has begun to lick me and the air conditioner threatens to reveal the prickliness of my legs and therefore the flaws in my femininity. His skin is softer than mine and I don’t like to be reminded of that. Desperate, I move my face closer to his and close my teeth around the invisible hair. I close my eyes and my lashes graze the skin of his neck. When I bite down I taste Yerba Mate and cigarettes. I taste my skin repeated on his mouth. I taste metal and headache and sick. All the memories I want to methodically collect and discard. I pull away and swallow my spit on instinct. Everything back to the body.

He’s still sleeping. Snoring actually. I tip-toe around him and continue to gather more hairs from the bed, the pillows, between the sheets. My hair whip has reverted back to a meek clump of shame. Hearing him stir, I cross the room and shove the matted strands into the pocket of my jeans. I dare not leave them to be discovered in the trash can. Evidence of something, I don’t know. I don’t feel particularly reasonable. I wash my hands in the bathroom, try not to look at myself in the mirror anymore, and return to bed. Everything is clean. Half awake, he reaches for my hand and for the moment I have something else to hold.