That One Damn Hair

Don’t you hate it? When you see that one hair sticking out like it is compelling you to smite it? Egging you on in the mirror, unnoticed until now, like a reminder of your lack of observational skills. That you forget to take care of yourself?

That was probably what annoyed me most. Here it was, a good several centimeters outwards from my skin, wavy unlike the rest of my long, unkempt hair, just beyond the jawline where the razor didn’t touch.

My hand went back to the razor, but then it stopped.

No, this deserved special treatment. It didn’t belong in the first place, an oddity that shouldn’t be trimmed down like proper follicles but obliterated like it dared to exist. It didn’t matter that I was a bit of a slob when it came to other places, but something about this just irked me.

I shuffled through the sink drawer for a moment, the jumble of tools and knick-knacks hiding the object of my search. I skipped the scissors, batting them away.

Eventually, a light, metallic clatter, a familiar sound indicated that I found the tweezers. Brandishing it before my eyes like a weapon of destruction before the mirror, I could finally say ‘good riddance’ to the bane of my morning.

It seemed like a trivial thing, but I would no doubt heave a sigh of relief when it was finally gone. I wondered how long it had been there, gone unnoticed by me. Days, weeks even for that length?

How come my friend never spoke a single word of it? A “hey buddy, you missed a spot,” would have been nice. But no, he probably snickered in secret. Went about his day while I went about mine, day after day seeing that it was still there.

Maybe he even formed betting pools for when I would finally notice. That was certainly within his character. Well, someone would be earning their jackpot today. Au revoir, unsightly hair!

A swift grab and a yank later, I felt a painful tug. Looking down at the tweezers, I was surprised to find that there was nothing there. Did my fingers slip? Did it drop on the floor? The next thought was to check the mirror to confirm what had happened.

It’s still thereeeee!

Staring at me in the mirror, slightly curlier than before, it mocked me with its perseverance. I brought the tweezers up and made sure of firm contact this time, even giving it a test pull for confidence, before yanking.

OW! Owowowow-OW!

That felt like a thick one, monstrously so. I could never recall when plucking a single hair would bring me to tears like that. Even when that asshole friend of mine pranked me with a nose hair plucking kit that he found in some dumb novelty store. He somehow convinced me that it wouldn’t be so bad, pressured me to give it a try anyways. Well, it was that bad, and he spent ages laughing at me for it.

Just imagine, shoving a hot ball of wax on a Q-tip right into the nostril and then giving it a twirl. Letting all those hairs inside entangle and set permanently into a prison of no return. And then, the inevitable yank that was needed if I were to breathe normally again. That was pure torture.

But this… this was like being stabbed in the face out of the blue, an unexpected agony that I could not hope to brace myself for but simply die from. But it was over, right? RIGHT?

I looked in the mirror again and my jaw dropped.

It-It’s… longer?!

My mind refused to accept that so much agony had merely made it worse. That I was in an even worse place than before. With shaky hands, I reached up and tried again.

At least this time, I knew the pain was coming. I yanked and yanked as I stared in the mirror, seeing the skin of my cheek tent as it lifted with the hair. With every tug, I grew more desperate and added more strength, going so far as to weave in the opposite direction to add more oomph.

OWWWW, damn this stubborn-

The tweezers went flying. My hand slapped backwards, smashing the bottles on the countertop in its path. I nearly stumbled, barely managing to catch myself from crashing into the toilet. That would have been a terrible landing, wet and shitty. The tweezers bounced with the wail of a tuning fork somewhere in the bathtub.

With no risk of cracking my head on porcelain, I poked my head up to the mirror, where a trail of blood ran down from where the hair had been.

But it was gone! Gone! No more to deal with!

I wiped the blood running down my cheek and celebrated, a battle wound from my efforts. More blood poured out, as expected. It was a tough one and deserved its moment of praise for being a worthy opponent.

Taking a tissue from the counter, I blotted out the blood and continued about my day, brushing my teeth, dabbing a few bits of cologne, and putting on fresh clothes. I may have been a lazy slob, but I did the minimum to be presentable.

“There, it’s probably stopped by now.”

I removed the tissue. No blood ran down my cheek anymore. The natural defense mechanisms had done its job, scabbing up to blot out the invader that had finally been dislodged. Now, it was free to close shop and do the repairs.

Given the wound, it would take a few days to disappear. But at least, there was solace that it was finally gone. And even if someone were to notice, then-

“Huh?”

The damage had been more than a spot. Blinking to make sure my eyes were in focus, I slowly turned my head to see that a thick line was missing across the skin. Angling my head back and forth, it started to appear frightening, like the hair follicle had been ingrown and ripped savagely across my cheek, taking everything with it.

But as I touched the area cautiously, I could tell that it was far worse than what I expected. It went deep, more than any hair should. No wonder it hurt. A shiver ran down my spine as my entire fingernail sank into the space. It felt unnatural, unnerving even. I shakily moved across the length of the crevice, hitting a little flap that budged, a skin-colored strand that suddenly flopped out and hung on my cheek.

My fingers gripped it and gave a little tug, a similar pain as I felt before shooting into my head. It was connected. It was-

I looked down at the ground, scouring across the linoleum and over at the cheap store-brand bath rug. Bending down, I finally noticed the single black hair that curled atop the material.

I pulled it up and squinted, my eyes tracing the length of the long curly hair, until it transitioned to skin color without a break and got wider.

It couldn’t be… hair and skin were not the same. They shouldn’t be. But holding it up to my cheek, it was the perfect fit for the missing piece.

I hovered over the sink, holding myself up with my elbows, staring at the mirror. The flap of skin started to hang down more, like a string tempting me to deal with it again. Instinctively, I started to. For a moment, the fear and confusion blocked out the pain as I tugged.

Before the adrenaline of the situation wore off, I realized that the scar had lengthened. The wound, strangely bloodless now, grew in size. My face was empty. There was a hole in it with nothing inside.

In my palm was more bunched-up, skin-colored string, and suddenly, I knew I needed to stop.

Because for some reason, I was unravelling.