My hair did not like its saffron color, so it turned black and broke off. I tried to condition it with organic oils and fruit, but it still had a temper. Sometimes when I cry over it, it’ll pull me by the scalp. “I just want to take care of you!” I’ll shout. I know my hair does not care and will leave me soon. I combed the last four strands of it this morning, wondering if it’d change its mind and grow back.
When I sat the brush on the sink, I saw a black clot of hair in the shape of a hand reaching for me. “You were so lonely. I came to life so you’d have a friend.” The knot said. I felt strange when my eyes began to water with tears, even stranger when I took the knot’s hand and kissed it. “Why were you so mean then?” I asked. “Because I felt your misery.” My friend replied.
About the author:
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. She also enjoys photography. Her work has appeared in Spelk, Cease Cows, Juked and others. Her favorite wine is Merlot. https://ashlieallenfictionwriterandpoet.wordpress.com/