My hair is thinning and it coats my bedroom floor. Every time I get up from my bed or from my chair, the hair drifts around my feet and I’m reminded of my stress. Like a considerate person, you ask, “What are you stressed about?” I pull a face, shrug and I’m already dissociating when I say, “I don’t know!”
Every morning, I pull back the curtains and a stream of light streams in. I expect to be knocked off my feet as a realization that things aren’t as bad as I make them to be. Half-way through the day, I open the window to air out the stale air and hope that the cool breeze can help me stop losing hair.
On an odd Tuesday morning, I pick up the broom and sweep away all the stray hairs. Enough has cumulated that it’s enough if you gathered it into your hands, it would look like a hamster from the distance when in reality, it’s all the hair that’s taken the jump. I sigh loudly so that it echoes my mind, but not loud enough so that I can do anything about it. It lingers before it drifts away just like each day as the sun comes and goes, allowing time for night to fall.