My wife has six hairbrushes and one comb. They all sit in a basket together, like a family of Sparrow, nesting in a tree. Two of these hairbrushes look untouched, perfectly clean, not even a strand of hair between their bristles.
Two others are worn to the core, matted with hair, accumulated over a decade perhaps, maybe more. If you were to walk into our bathroom and spot them, you would wonder why she keeps the Dog's brushes mixed in with her own.
“That's so unsanitary” (You would think to yourself.)
We don’t have a dog.
She is saving them. For what? I honestly don't know. Maybe she feels badly for them or maybe she just can't let go.
"This was the brush I used on the night of my Junior Prom."
“My Mom bought this brush for me on the day I first noticed I had boobies.”
I can't even imagine the sentimental value. Girl stuff.
I can only speculate. She never talks about them and I don’t ask…
Maybe she's crazy.
One of the hairbrushes looks like it has been in a terrible fire. Its entire left side is melted, (Like the cover of that Peter Gabriel album from the early 80’s.) as if it were trapped in the glove compartment of a burning car, screaming for help; my wife must have rescued it just in time; Now they share an eternal bond.
One of the hairbrushes is very odd looking. It doesn't look like it belongs with the others. It's different. It's completely cylindrical; Like some sort of cannoli with teeth. I don't like the way it looks at me. One time when no one was around, I tried to run it through my own hair, to see if it would take care of my part. Nothing.
Last but not least, there sits one black comb. This puzzles me the most. Why would someone own six hairbrushes and one comb? You either use a brush or a comb, no?
I used a brush all throughout the 7th and 8th grades. I carried it around in the back pocket of my Jordache jeans, at all times. It was sort of a status symbol. It exuded teen sexuality. When I entered the 9th grade, I switched rather suddenly, to a Pick. They were in style. I never used it though.
Sometimes when I’m sitting on the toilet, I stare at the six hairbrushes and the one comb. I try and remember if they had always been there together. Have I ever seen her use the comb? What unique function does each of the tools perform? Is there some sort of obvious hairbrush protocol that I’m unaware of? Silly man.
This morning I lifted the wicker basket in which they sit. I wanted to get a closer look at the family of hairy sparrow. When I lifted the basket, I noticed that there was a significant amount of hair, growing from the bottom of the basket. The hair had slithered through the open cracks of the wicker, over time… like a vine.
I once heard someone say that after you die, your hair continues to grow. Could the hair in the wicker basket be alive? There is always hair on our bathroom floor. Is it slowly migrating? It wouldn’t be the strangest thing to ponder. I’ve seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
I don’t want to be like Donald Sutherland. I’m smarter than that. I’m smarter than the six hairbrushes and the one comb.
I will not be strangled in the middle of the night, in my own bed, when I sleep, by alien hair.
I will not be Out-Numbered…