I washed my hairs today.

Normally, I wash my hair. But I don’t have enough left to call it hair. Hair is a bunch of hair. Hair is a pony tail. Hair can be braided. Hair whips around your face when the windows are down in the car in the summertime.

Hair takes in and gives off the smell of shampoo, of a campfire, of the scent of your partner.

Hair is something you flip when you have an attitude. When you dismiss someone. Or when you’re flirting.

Hair is something I play with when I’m thinking. I tuck it behind my ears. I brush it away from my face. Not so much twirling it, but placing it. I’ve seen this annoyance on video. I bet the experts would tell me to stop.

Hairs is all I have left. The hair came out in huge swaths. It seems that everything in the house now has a clump of golden locks on it. It’s tiresome.

But it’s my mane. Was my mane. Is now in the trash.

Time for a clean sweep and a new beginning. I will miss my hair, but not so much my hairs.