The Bag Full of Hair

There's a bag full of hair on the street corner. Bright blonde hair. Golden hair. In little chunks in a small brown paper bag. On the corner of 15th and Harrison. They look like the clippings of a haircut, swept up into a lunch sack. There's no blood. Not that I can tell. I laugh because I'm uncomfortable. With a furrowed brow she looks away from me.

"It's not funny. It's creepy. What is wrong with you?"

"I know it's not funny. It's just...bizarre"

"Yeah. It's weird alright. It's like one of those things you tell yourself you will tell your kids about someday"

"I doubt it"

"Why?"

"I doubt I'll live that long"

She laughs and says, "Well, I'll live that long. I don't smoke"

Then she tells me about a tv show she saw that was about the world ending in 2012 and how it made her feel both terrified and at peace. The story is capped with "should we call the police?"

"The police? What are they gonna do about the Mayan calendar ending in 2012?"

She laughs and says "I mean about that bag with the hair in it, dipshit. What if it's evidence or something?"

"I doubt it's that sinister, Charlotte. It's probably just the remains of a prank or a barber shop's trash"

With an unmotivated urgency she says "Do you want to go out to eat tonight? I want to try that sushi place that Dad likes. With the conveyor belt"

"I suppose. Can we invite Chris?"

She sighes. "Why do we have to invite him?"

"He's my friend. He's going through a rough time right now"

"I suppose you can call him. But after you call the police about that bag of hair. I couldn't sleep if I knew it belonged to a little girl or a rape victim or something"

I can't believe that this woman is related to me. She sounds nothing like me. She sounds nothing like Mom, she uncertainly sounds nothing like Dad.

"Why do you always have to be so dramatic?"

A sigh, a pause.

"Alright, alright. I'll call the fucking police. Jesus"

She smiles as she holds her hand up to her eyes to block out the sun. Her lips are chapped and it reminds me that she is imperfect and that makes me relate to her more. I grew up in her shadow, my taller and older and more attractive sister. Now we're equals of sorts, with blemishes and spare tires and matching bags under our eyes. And chapped lips.

"It sure is bright today".

I say this to make her feel less alone. A verbal squint of solidarity, a wordy echo of her uncomfortable stance.

"Damn straight it is. Will you come with me to buy some sunglasses? Mine broke"

I nod as I notice a group of teenagers congregating across the street. 4 girls and 4 boys. They look awkward and frustrating and obnoxious and endearing all at the same time. One boy with shaggy hair wears a t-shirt that says "2 YOUNG 2 DIE" in big block letters and smokes a cigarette like a beginner.

The image of the bag on the corner hits me again.

"You still want me to call the police?"

She looks down at the ground and mumbles "No. I guess you're right. It's probably nothing".

"We can go back and look at it again if you want. See if we see any clues or anything. Signs of a struggle."

"Like detectives?"

"Like detectives"

"Just like when we were kids"

"Like when we were kids"