CHAINED

Ashli Giles

Over the years, I have collected all sorts of hairs: blonde, brown, red, blue, long, short, dead.
        I always know when the girls are going to wake up and break things off: the subtle frown in their face as they slide into the left side of the bed, the tense shoulders as they drink from a small glass of water, the heavy sighs as they shuffle so their back is to mine. I am used to the signs, so when they begin to snore, I reach over and steal a strand. Never a reaction as I slip it into the bedside table drawer.
        Then in the morning, as I sit with one cup of coffee only made for myself, she walks in with her bag and says, ‘It’s over,’ and off she goes. I no longer bat an eyelid. Instead, I desert the coffee and run to the bedroom once the front door slams shut. The strand is always still there.
        In the topmost shelf of the kitchen cupboard lies a bracelet – gold chains linking together and fitting perfectly on my wrist. However, it is no longer possible to see the chains, for various coloured hairs are interwoven along the design. All the colours blend together into a murky brown, though it is easy to spot the odd dyed hair amongst the chain.
        As is tradition, I bring the bracelet down from the shelf and carefully place it on the island table. Then, with nimble fingers, I pinch the end of the last hair (pink, I could not tell you her name) and form a small knot between that and the new hair. Then I loop it tightly around the chain. Once. Twice. Thrice. Only until I am certain it will not fall off. 
        Finally, I reflect upon my work, holding the bracelet upon two palms and bringing it to my nose to smell. Hair products last a surprisingly long time when unexposed to the world outside. When I slide the bracelet across my wrist, the tingles it elicits are worth the process.
        Then back in the cupboard, and on to the next date.