Hair

Hair is identity. Not just something in your bones, not just something you run your wet fingers through, not just something to differentiate you from your dry peers — your hair is the soul you imagine is in your chest. You can shave and color and style it, but its essence hangs on as aura. It’s waiting in you when you’re born, it’s there in pitch blackness when you’re running away from what you fear most, and it will survive the person you recognize in personality. Hair is worn down and etiolated as sheets of time twist, are snapped smooth and folded. As your body loses water it will shrink and pull away from each strand. The white light you wander toward will be made of photons; split from your trimmings, burning at the edge of your horizon. Hair is what you tangle with in life and where you nest in death.