Where Do All My Hairs Go?

[Read this post to this music: I'll Be Home for Christmas Except It's April 2023]

I blew some wittle strands off my laptop.

It seems I only ever get onto this blog to write anything about my life when I'm in crisis. 

Homework crisis. I don't know what I don't know again. 

I sit still under the rain. When the rain leaves me drenched, I sit still under the sun. A leaf floats from a nearby tree and lands on the spot between my eyebrows, because I'm soaking up the sun that's suddenly arrived all week.

Perhaps there's a pair of sweatpants headed my way. A leash in their hands. The sweatpants pass me by. The dog turns around, eyes searching for any familiarity in me. Its paws continue skipping ahead. I'm not even a friend. Maybe one day I am. 

My own hands are holding onto a fine pen and small notebook, the size of my palm. So small, it's only meant for memorable quotes said by friends at most. Or doodles of whales circling moons at its least.

A notification that my 4 new phone cases from Shein have arrived make my phone chirp. Each case is decorated with images I've probably already dreamed of before but never thought to make a business idea out of. If only I had that entrepreneur mindset along with my econ degree. And thank god I only dream shit. Not draw them too. I'd be unstoppable.

There's a laugh across the street I could recognize anywhere. A part of me longs to be where that laugh is, but maybe we're no longer close enough for me to suddenly reach out. My hands search for the next thing to write.

Ah. Another list. 

A small notebook of lists. Always and always about things I haven't done yet. And not the things I've already done.

The very tips of my hairs come into perspective as I focus on the page on that small notebook in my lap. 

Split ends. Almost everywhere if I look hard enough. Split ends where there are none. I pull softly on a small bunch of them and again and always, a hair already free from my head and only waiting for another force to let it go, separates itself from all the other hairs already stuck on my head. 

That hair slides along the other hairs. Goodbyes. To everybody. 

I pull it all the way out and examine the entirety of its thinness. Its length. Not delicate at all. 

I rub it one way. And then the other way. I pinch it between my fingers. 

Then another hair already on my lap, perhaps from a while ago, comes into perspective. I really do stress shed. Maybe that dog from earlier saw it before I did and was wondering why I didn't put my loose hairs back on my head. 

But what's left is left. 

With two strands in my hands. And a pen. And a notebook on my lap. 

I can only hold onto so much. My hands are wittle after all. Good for making comparisons of "ohmigod your hands are so bigggg compared to mine" with hands of single men who have promised me from head to toe that they are single and are absolutely not in open relationships and who managed to actually make me blush. 

My little sister would suggest maybe to wait for the next biggest wind. 

"Then you let it go." 

Fucking wise-woman shit. 

So I wait for a wind that never comes. Not for the next 14 minutes. 

While I wait, my lips wish for a sweetness. Like Dr. Pepper. Rock sugar and artichoke juice. 

I remember the days when I used to wait all the damn day to get home. Autumns that felt like summers. Spring that felt like summers. Some lucky afternoons after school, my grandma would have it already made: rock sugar and artichoke juice. "Now we add the ice. You can't just drink it the moment you get home. Wash those hands."

I gulp it anyways. Straight from the jug. 

Fucking wise-woman shit. 

"Come here boy. Tch, tch. No more sniffing. We gotta go. Come on." Sweatpants sweats past my thoughts. I'm trying to remember my grandma right now, come on. 

Yes, she's still alive. No, I haven't called her in 2 weeks.

I wonder if sweatpants ever had the opportune to chance on such a wicked combination. Rock sugar and artichoke juice and ice. The dog turns and looks at me again. A bit more recognition this time. 

Yes, I've seen you before. 

A wind should pick up by now. Blowing all these poor strands that took a while to grow on my head, away from me. The wind will carry the strands to the patch of grass the dog wanted to sniff earlier. 

Maybe if the dog passed that grass a third time. And my strands were there. Maybe the perfume I wore today, painting those strands, would be something to recognize, if we ever meet again.