Sometime last year, a rumour was spreading, much like Ebola
is now, about people stealing hair from people with dreadlocks in matatus, in
dark alleys and sometimes right on the street when crossing the road.
That freaked
me out.
Whenever I took a matatu – because I’d spent all my fuel money on other
shit I didn’t need – I’d make sure to cover my head with a scarf. When I went
out of the office building in town, I did the same. But the rumours didn’t
spread much further or longer and I soon forgot about it.
But now that I think about it, perhaps I should start a
rumour that a secret society of necrophiliacs are targeting women with large, weaves
and wigs, specifically so that they can cut them off at the scalp, take their
handbags of pleather, scrape a little dead skin off their thighs and do
whatever it is that necrophiliacs do with such things as they collect. But fake
and dead don’t mean the same thing, you say! Well necrophiliacs don’t give a
damn! Fake is as good as dead to them, I say.
Why would I do this, you wonder? I’m just so sick and tired
of inhaling hair product, carrying half a bag that’s not mine and being squashed
by slender people who could fit perfectly in their chairs, but decide to
snuggle as close to you as they possibly can. It’s not fair, and I don’t swing
that way. Don’t swing at all, might I add J.
I’m not going to seek the necro’s on my fellow women because
they look bad, no! In fact, they look pretty good. I wish I had the money to
buy and the courage to wear weaves. As we speak, I do not. But I don’t want
your plastic tresses in my eye every time you turn your head or every time a
cross current passes coughs through an open window. I don’t like it.
Hmm... maybe I’ll just create a legend, a serial hair
cutter... and then bring it/him/her to life myself. And when I do get caught,
as all serial [people?] do, I’m sure I won’t be stoned to death, or made to
wear a rubber doughnut and set alight. There’s no way.
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