a hairy conspiracy

"I'm shedding like a cat!" I cry and the student I am helping giggles, but I can't concentrate on her question. My eyes are attuned to see each spiraling hair dangling from glove, hanging from the edge of a sleeve, clinging to the collar of my coat and all driven back to my body by the pull of static when I try to remove them. Even now, there is one mysteriously hidden down the front of my shirt and I conveniently can't reach down to fish it out for the sake of propriety and the innocence of my students. When I look around, all I see are hairs. I gently pull one from the fibers of my hand-warmers and hold it to the side like a worm ready to be hooked. I watch it float with feathery lightness to the ground just to make sure it's not still grabbing hold of me. I survey myself: my hands, my sleeves, each shoulder, and sigh with relief to see myself purged. My hairs grin wickedly at one another, barely able to contain their glee in a soft swish when I move my head.

Moments later, I start the ritual over again.