Hairhouse
written by: Sama Adhami
The blue outside is thinking about being yellow. The beautiful sleep hums between the ticking of the clock; the alarm goes off again and again, eight minutes apart. She wakes or thinks she does. She opens her eyes. Her pillow has long, brown hair. The glass of water on the bedside table holds a floating coil. She picks it out; the hair is growing longer by the minute in her hand. The lamp cord, even the rim of the glass on the table, has sprouted hair in its odd corners. She sits up. Feet on the ground. The floor is entirely haired. She parts the hair in the middle with the wiggle of her big toes. She goes into the bathroom. The toothbrush is bristled with hair. On the toilet seat, she reads the papers she left off yesterday. Hair seeps out of their pages, long, thick, brown hair. Dizzy, she hurries to flush and get out. The handles have grown hair. This couldn’t be her apartment.
Yellow has emerged from the blue now. She puts a hand to her head. Palm to skin. Smooth. Cold. Bare.
