a single strand

I found a long, black hair on the bathroom floor the other day. And this wasn’t just any long, black hair. This was the Wilt Chamberlin of long, black hairs.

Generally, I don’t mind hairs all that much. Granted, I’d rather not find them caked into a hamburger patty that I’m about to eat or poking out of a bowl of pudding, but this black hair was troublesome for reasons that extended beyond the edible realm. This hair worried me because I have neither black nor long hair.

Which led me to wonder where, exactly, this hair came from.

I’d like to think that this hair was left over from a group of Playboy Bunnies that got lost while driving through Pittsburgh, having become hot and sweaty due to a faulty air conditioner in their Bunnymobile. And that they just happened to finally decide to pull over at my apartment complex, where they begged and pleaded with my landlord to please let them use a shower…any shower. And of all the showers in all the apartments, he chose mine. Thus, for a few brief hours while I was at work, the Bunnies splashed and lathered and frolicked in my tub, leaving one lone hair behind as they toweled off and continued on their drive…perhaps to the Playboy mansion, perhaps to Cleveland. Either way, that sexy hair was left by them.

It’s much more likely, however, that this hair came to be on my floor because the strange, antisocial guy down the hall chose my apartment to murder someone in. And instead of being a sexy Playboy hair, it’s a gross dead body hair.

While I know this is all stupid speculation and that I’m probably over-reacting, I still have no idea how this mysterious hair ended up on my tile floor. But just to be safe, every day after work I nervously pull back my shower curtain to and check the tub to make sure that there’s no dead body lying there.