Suddenly her hair began to fall out. In tufts. Clump after clump of hair landed on the bathroom tile. She held the lose strands in her brown hand, her brush in the other.
“I don’t get it,” Sophia said, crying on the bed.
I put my arm around her and she rested her head on my shoulder.
Her hair was everywhere: a path of fur led us to the kitchen and out to our tiny living room where she kept her canvases. Don would stumble in drunk in the middle of the night and follow the thin path of hair to his room in order to find his bed. Sophia told Don she was worried and he shrugged his shoulders, “At least, it’s convenient.”
Her beautiful long head of dark hair had once reached down to her hips. Now it only made it to her shoulders. It covered our apartment.
Sophia tried to feel better about it as she swept and vacuumed and wiped little hairs off of the toilet bowl.
“They say that 99% of the matter in the universe is invisible to the human eye. My hair’s been floating around like it’s attaching itself to something else. Maybe there’s a deeper meaning to all of this.”
She tied it up in a little ball on the top of her head and proceeded to paint. Hair filled the canvas. It could rise and fall with the wind coming through the open window.
“Never been done before I bet,” Don said as he passed through the living room, burping.
“Never been done before, my ass,” she replied.
Sophia sold the hairy paintings to galleries that had never seen anything so grotesque. More and more hair sprouted out of the canvases until whole patches of the canvas were covered.
“Like a monster is growing out of it,” I told her when she asked me to be honest about her work. This made her feel good.
“Like me,” she said.