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warning:
this story, while short compared to novels, is long for someone browsing
on the net. be prepared!
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I
I’ve tried
everything and nothing works. Wax, electrolysis, creams, ointments, salves,
prayers, razors. If only everything else about me was as steadfast, confident
and hardy as the hairs on my legs. When I was born the doctors eagerly announced
me as a boy just a little too quickly, interpreting my infant moustache as a
healthy sign of precocious manliness. Luckily, I was, and am, a man.
Unfortunately, as soon as the moustache withered and thinned, They came.
Emerging from the depths of my soul. Each strand a monolith, thicker than the
next; come to tell the world everything I won’t.
Today
I still toil with the interweaving twine of my biologically tasseled body. These
long stray hairs betray me, peeking from under the skin, straining into the
light like angel hair bean sprouts. Don’t think I’m as unruly as my hairs;
I’m clean, neat, straight-laced, stoic, tough, scrubbed, pale. If I struggle
to keep my inadequacies beneath the surface, the hairs mock me, jeering at my
failure, peeking out the surface inevitably, inextricably. I do not think I will
go into the details of my physical appearance; the rest of me is not quite as
fascinating my hair.
The
only other detail of my life worth the tale is the sad state of my love life. I
have a long string of lovers but I can only be faithful to one person. I
practice polygamy out of my deep-seated need for a Romantic ideal. My last
meaningful non-Platonic relationship ended nine years three months seven days
fourteen hours and two minutes ago, on a brief note; a monotone dial tone. We
are friends, and when I say friends I do not mean that we can barely stand to be
in the same room together. We cherish each other, and find comfort in our
closeness. It still puzzles me that after all these years we’ve known each
other (2 years: acquaintances, 3 years: non-Platonic, 9 years: Platonic) I still
cannot bear to bare my legs in front of her. No shorts, no bermudas, no skirts,
no flaps. It’s long pants for me – slacks, jeans, pants, overalls: they hide
the roots and stems of my black undergrowth; not a shadow or likeness of shape
strains against the tough twill layers of tried, tested and processed fibre. I
pay good money for my vanity.
I’m going to
write to my ex-girlfriend, current good friend, steadfast crush. I write
everyday. Six times a day, for three years now. I inform her of my diet, my
incurable fingertip-chewing, my toes that seem a little too knobbly, some of my
books, some of my thoughts, some of my life. She lives next door but I prefer
the e-mail. There’s something Romantic about the e-mail. I don’t care what
all the paper-loving people in the world say, to me the magic of letter-writing
lies in the letter-less, writing-less computer-generated binaries of my
favourite Internet invention. I can be what I want when I write. I am
smartsavvysexycool and disarmingly hairless from the nose down. Our last e-mail
regarded the shared hopes and dreams harboured by our idealistic young minds.
Casually entwined, we saw into each other’s souls. We both agreed that the
weather here is not pleasant. Leaning on each other for intellectual and
emotional support, we concluded that tourists from Europe basking in the sun,
baking to a golden-brown-red tan were lucky they had somewhere else to live. I
wonder why I can’t have more meaningful relationships; that is, with other
people. Ours is fantastic.
II
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Every
now and then I see a distinct, definite, unmistakable sign that she
really wants me. You know, like that. I read through the
labyrinths of her emails, expertly decode the walls of her defense,
shatter the blinds that hide the truth to uncover her core, her
soul’s very need. I see through the shy riddles of her words. I
shan’t say too much, I wouldn’t want to get too carried away, but
I am trying to tell you the truth and record the truth here for all to
see, and the truth will prevail. I will disclose this: most of the
time she ends her emails with her name, preceded by a “eat more,
take care, see you later, we’ll talk soon”, but sometimes, very
infrequently, it slips out. She ends off with her name preceded by a
“Love”. I think she thinks I don’t notice. But I notice
everything; I just don’t always admit it.
This
is not to say we have never talked about it. I bring it up from time
to time. We chat on the IRC.
“What
are you talking about?”
“I’m
saying you don’t have to hide the way you feel all the time.”
“What
makes you think I’m hiding something?”
“I
know that you don’t always say what you mean, and sometimes you hide
the truth.”
“For
instance…?”
I
brought out my trump card. I told her I KNEW. As expected, she was sly
as ever, and denied everything. Oh how I love a chase!
These
days I’m keeping busy. I’ve got to keep busy. I clean the house, I
clean the corridors, I straighten out other people’s houses when
I’m invited over, I’m the unpaid maid of the office. I may be a
successful car salesman but I find nothing more satisfying than a good
scrub of the toilet. When I’m not cleaning I read up, tone up,
spiritualize, aromatherapize, energize. Because I love her. And she,
unknowingly, for now, longs for me. I buy myself new clothes so that
she will see. I buy a new book so she will know I’ve read it. I buy
food so that I’ll look strong enough for her. I prune my hair every
morning, noon and night after breakfast, lunch and dinner. I
skillfully get rid of the hair that is outside the Specially
Designated Areas. My colleagues say I’ve got luscious eyebrows.
It’s one of my strong points.
I
remember that she used to cradle me in her arms and comfort me with
her pillow-like company. We would spend hours whiling away the time.
Living a life of bliss, the envy of the town.
“Why
don’t we ever talk?”
“Because
you’re too sexy.”
Hair
280A5, a.k.a. “Stumpy”: “The bodily bliss catalyzed the end.”
Hair
900Z2, a.k.a. “Flopsy”: “I remember her stiffening during their
last caress – no, not the one we live on, the other - I thought she
was only sleepy or just not in the mood.”
Hairs
500 and 600V7, unnamed: “I didn’t know she was dying”.
Today
I have cleared up the store room. Have wiped, swept, dusted, waxed,
polished, shined, buffed, brushed, sterilized and decimated the
bacterial race with the genocidal sweep of Jif. I bought an air filter
so that the air could be cleaned along with the floorboards. I bathed
after changing the filter’s sponge between sets. I was great. So of
course I have no time for friends and other luxuries: there is a price
for perfection. Friends are an ultimately disappointing luxury anyway.
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III
I’ve
just woken up. I remember a dream I have been delighting in just moments ago. It
consisted of her face, her voice, her touch. How I love her! You would love her
too. At times I see into her soul again, when she’s dressed in Bermudas, faded
and t-shirt, crummy. Face unwashed and hair unbecoming, I love her more than
anything. But when she looks at me I see the horror of horrors, beyond
everything. Her pupils dilate and constrict, and I come into focus: a giant,
monstrous hair. Like from a miracle shampoo advertisement’s blow-up picture of
a “before” specimen. I move my mouth to scream, but I am only a sea of dead
congealed cells.
One
day, freshly plucked and shaven, I met someone. She looked like my Love. She
talked like my Love. She carried the world with her when she walked and looked
as though she had not a care in the world. I fell in love with a girl like that
once, and I could do it again. And again. And again.
I
have a string of lovers. One on each toe, oozing out of every pore. In them I
capture bits and pieces of the real thing, my only, true Love. Last week some
body said to me:
“You
make me feel alive.” A cliché, despicable. But I was already transported by
her nose that looks like yours to a virgin field, where goats were singing and
you and I were rooted in the ground, botanical. Our leaves competed for
sunlight, and where one flourished, the other withered. You said to me,
“Don’t leave me, your being here is all the heaven I could ever want.” But
all the time we withered and the goats nibbled at our throats, and we knew.
On
my rare free days I sniff. Glue, Vicks, cigarettes, paper, perfume, correction
fluid, they give me a rise. An upheaval, I am altered, I am alive.
I
still don’t understand why we broke up. After a while I got used to not having
fun when we went out. She was just being selfish. All we needed to do was try
harder. Every couple has its problems. I cared about her more than anything else
in the world. She was, to quote Ricky Martin, “all I ever had.”
I:
“I’m just saying I don’t think you’re right.”
She:
“So, what does this have to do with you?”
I:
“Nothing. I’m talking out of concern for you.”
She:
“No. You’re incapable of that.”
IV
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The
shaver broke today. I usually have more in the bathroom cabinet, but
this time I must have forgotten to get extras. No naked razors left
either. And when I went out to buy new ones at the neighborhood store
the shops were closed for a public holiday. I didn’t feel like going
anywhere else. I’ve always gone to that one store. I used a
combination of the creams in my cabinet. It doesn’t work as well and
you can still see the roots after leaving it on for a whole hour. Plus
creams make the hair come back with a vengeance when it grows back.
Which explains my predicament now.
I
stepped next door to say hello to my love and see if I could sneak
into her bathroom and use the shaver there. But she wasn’t home.
Maybe I would have to let them grow a little after all. I thought
I’d wait for her to get back. But when she got back I saw her
husband open the door, and I couldn’t just invite myself in, at
least not in this state. I’ve been lying around the house trying to
ignore all the comments I keep hearing from Them for the past three
hours. I’m also trying not to cringe from the overpowering happiness
coming from next door. Tomorrow I’ll get an electric. Right now the
hairs are growing by the inch, steadily emerging and extending out of
the sore pores, slithering out in their rare moment of victory. I
shall have to think of new names for them. For Shorty and Spike
especially.
My
hair tells me I don’t listen to you. That I’ve never heard a word
you’ve said. I’ll challenge them for once in my life.
Me:
So I suppose you think I don’t care about her at all?
Them:
You hardly think of her.
Me:
That’s a lie. I think of her all the time.
Them:
You think of you, and maybe how you could have been happier if things
had been different. She’s just a necessary detail.
Me:
Why would I bother to lie to myself for so long, why would I do that?
Them:
Why wouldn’t you?
I
refuse to talk to my hair. It is not healthy. Meanwhile I’ll go look
for a scissors. I hear the radio sermon introductory jingle and the
introductory speech. It must be six o’ clock already. A
male voice, full of pious sensibility, hammers out his words to the
masses. “On Judgment Day your body will no longer serve you.
Your hands, your belly, your tongue will speak against you if you do
not in the language of God.”
If
only he knew the half of it. I know that if you try hard enough, you
can hear them rehearsing for their big day.
“Why
do you always have to lie?” she asked.
“I’m
not lying.”
“Would
you tell me if you really were lying?” she probed.
That
would be missing the point.
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........................
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