Pluck. Pain. Touch. I've always obsessed over hair. Growing up as a child I used to dig and pluck every single strand out of my scalp. Obsessing hours, every day the feeling and sound of, ripping the follicle out, the slight pain. Then euphoria, the bald feeling, running my grubby hands over the now smooth surface. It went on for hours. Pluck. Pain. Touch. Pluck. Pain. Touch.

After my parents, who never understood, put me in arm braces. My hair had grown to my chin. As my classmates huddled around, during lunch feeling my locs, I began to understand the beauty of my obsession. That hair was something to revere. My obsession broadened encompassing others. Every head had something different to offer. A girl who sat in front of me had beautiful, blonde hair something my own could never compare to. Beside me a head of short shiny black.

My locs were now shoulder length when I discovered fur and turned to the cat. The moonlight illuminating the bright white fur. It didn't feel the same as the girl with golden hair yet, I began to imagine what it would feel like on my skin, how I could thread it into my locs. How the orange and white would contrast against the dark brown almost black dreads. Pluck. Pain. Attach.

Attach. Attach. Attach. I used each hair to cover the brown, to wrap the different colors up. Blend the colors to create something unique. My parents found me in the morning, blood dripping down my forehead. I thought they would be happy. Instead they cried over the bare carcass in the tub. Pluck. Pain. Touch. Pluck. Pluck.

Later in life. I withheld from my obsessions. It wasn't until I became a hairdresser that my passions reignited. The hair was white as snow. It curled just gently above her shoulders and I imagined them to be my own shoulders. How enthralling my own hair would be with the contrast of the white. It would be like snow with me each step. The thought consumed me. Pluck. Attach. Feel. Pluck. Attach. Feel. Pluck. Attach. Feel. The words screamed.

"Pixie cut" The words cut through my thoughts. It was easy running the scissors across her thin neck. I lifted her snow white hair gently off her shoulders making sure not to dye any of the porous strands. As the blood run down her front. The motions brought me back to the bathtub. With one flick of my wrist I pressed the scissors underneath the paper thin skin and then underneath the whole scalp relieving the woman from her precious possession. Attach. The word enveloped me as I picked up the needle and thread. Thread. Attach. Feel. I chanted the mantra with the motions. Thread. Attach. Feel. Thread. Attach. Feel. Thread. Attach. Feel. And Smile.

I walked out of the Retirement Community as eyes followed me. I was the center of attention as many held out their cellphones hoping to capture the moment. They loved my new hair.