u/jovanithelass

If I didn’t shave, it took him longer to envelop me. This led to less sleep. Work started at seven, ended at four, and when I got home, I'd clean, then cook, and then clean again. When that was done, it’d be close to nine, accounting for leisure time. This gave me about three hours of sleep. When he’d wake me up, I’d shave, head to toe. He’d only begin to unstitch himself when I returned to bed and presented. Without my body supporting him, he was a sack of loose skin. The muscles that lined the interior of his porous suit gave him only enough motor function to unstitch himself. This took several hours. When it was done, he’d meet me with a back facing hug, latching the loose flaps around my body. I’d become very good at stitching him back up once inside of him; it took almost no time at all.  

If you put your tongue to the sides of your mouth, you can get a rough sense of what the lining inside of him felt like. This is non-keratinized stratified squamous epithelium. It’s the same kind of tissue used for the interior of the vaginal canal. A mouth is a more convenient example than that, as its tissue is probably closer to his (and I doubt you have immediate access to tongue the interior of the latter). 

When the stitching was finished, it’d seal shut. The cut outs for my facial features would suck up against me. His skin pulled my breasts deeper into my chest, making it hard to breathe. I’d been doing this for as long as I could remember, and the week earlier, it had started getting tighter. 

That weekend I had a date. The first date I’d ever been on. As everyone else had, she met me as him. It felt deceptive in a sense. On the other hand, this had been who I always was, and as far as she knew there was no deviance to that. If she liked the skin I wore, why should it matter? 

Work let me take the day. I spent it getting ready, which was mostly his doing. As per usual we repeated the routine; I shaved, he watched, I presented, he unstitched, I watched, he enveloped me, and finally I stitched again. There were his outfits and mine. Mine was a sizeable collection of thrifted dresses, but mostly just comfortable pants. His were for work, the bare minimum coworker clothes. We wore his, of course. Rarely did I have the time to wear my own. 

When you’re living inside somebody else's skin, everything’s secondhand. If I pet a cat, the only sensation is the pressure passing through his hand to mine. A hug, or any sort of affection, is buffered. Any sense of texture or warmth is muted. Her arms wrapped around me, him, and I felt close to nothing. 

It had gotten particularly tight that day. The hours leading up to the date (post stitching) it shrunk progressively. Now that I was there, sitting down in front of her, it was undeniable. Pushed so hard against the skin surrounding my mouth that I could barely speak, and so locked around my legs I couldn’t move. He was going to choke me before long. 

“It’s so nice to finally be doing this.” My date had said pleasantly. 

She took a minute before showing any signs of discomfort at my discomfort. The arms were loose enough for me to move my own, and if I moved my jaw in sharp jerks, I could form words. Given my mouth was already open, I could let my tongue do most of the talking. At least, this was what I thought. What came out was a gargled mess of vowels and consonants that vaguely resembled: 

“You look nice.” My mouth stayed swung open, anticipating a response. 

“Thanks.” She had said, politely enough to keep the date going, but not enough to warrant a direct reply. Her attention turned to the menu. 

As it got tighter around my face, my eyelids became harder to close. The shrink-wrapped skin pushing against mine caused the lids to scrape against my corneas. Every blink was a strain until I didn’t have the strength to shut them anymore. I pointed, and she ordered my food for me. I grabbed my utensils in preparation for my coming lack of motor skills. While we waited, my eyes began to dry out. 

“Are you ok?” She said carefully, as if not to offend me. 

After some resistance from the back of my neck, I managed to swing my head into a nod. She looked down at the table.  

When the food arrived, I was a doll. Poseable, sure, but not by much. There was no movement between my legs, my torso, or my eyelids. My arms still gave way to a little, but it had to be in fast jerks and swings. I took coarse painful breaths. The waiter asked if I was alright, but my head wouldn’t give anymore. My neck had become so constricted that any pull forward yielded nothing. After a minute of pulling, as both my date and the waiter attempted to call for help, I managed a nod.  

There was a sharp tearing sound as his skin pulled apart at the back. I raised my arm in a sharp motion to feel it, and the fork, still held in my hand, stabbed into his forehead. The few muscles in his arm untensed over mine as he directed it to the wound. Taking advantage of this release, I grabbed the exposed skin at the back of his neck and began to peel. Pulling myself out of him as he attempted to tense harder, I continued until there was nothing of him left grasping onto me. 

With the restaurant in hysterics, and myself damp, bloody, and in the nude, I ran for the exit. I’d never felt the breeze so clearly. 

If I didn’t shave, it took him longer to envelop me. This led to less sleep. Work started at seven, ended at four, and when I got home, I'd clean, then cook, and then clean again. When that was done, it’d be close to nine, accounting for leisure time. This gave me about three hours of sleep. When he’d wake me up, I’d shave, head to toe. He’d only begin to unstitch himself when I returned to bed and presented. Without my body supporting him, he was a sack of loose skin. The muscles that lined the interior of his porous suit gave him only enough motor function to unstitch himself. This took several hours. When it was done, he’d meet me with a back facing hug, latching the loose flaps around my body. I’d become very good at stitching him back up once inside of him; it took almost no time at all.  

If you put your tongue to the sides of your mouth, you can get a rough sense of what the lining inside of him felt like. This is non-keratinized stratified squamous epithelium. It’s the same kind of tissue used for the interior of the vaginal canal. A mouth is a more convenient example than that, as its tissue is probably closer to his (and I doubt you have immediate access to tongue the interior of the latter). 

When the stitching was finished, it’d seal shut. The cut outs for my facial features would suck up against me. His skin pulled my breasts deeper into my chest, making it hard to breathe. I’d been doing this for as long as I could remember, and the week earlier, it had started getting tighter. 

That weekend I had a date. The first date I’d ever been on. As everyone else had, she met me as him. It felt deceptive in a sense. On the other hand, this had been who I always was, and as far as she knew there was no deviance to that. If she liked the skin I wore, why should it matter? 

Work let me take the day. I spent it getting ready, which was mostly his doing. As per usual we repeated the routine; I shaved, he watched, I presented, he unstitched, I watched, he enveloped me, and finally I stitched again. There were his outfits and mine. Mine was a sizeable collection of thrifted dresses, but mostly just comfortable pants. His were for work, the bare minimum coworker clothes. We wore his, of course. Rarely did I have the time to wear my own. 

When you’re living inside somebody else's skin, everything’s secondhand. If I pet a cat, the only sensation is the pressure passing through his hand to mine. A hug, or any sort of affection, is buffered. Any sense of texture or warmth is muted. Her arms wrapped around me, him, and I felt close to nothing. 

It had gotten particularly tight that day. The hours leading up to the date (post stitching) it shrunk progressively. Now that I was there, sitting down in front of her, it was undeniable. Pushed so hard against the skin surrounding my mouth that I could barely speak, and so locked around my legs I couldn’t move. He was going to choke me before long. 

“It’s so nice to finally be doing this.” My date had said pleasantly. 

She took a minute before showing any signs of discomfort at my discomfort. The arms were loose enough for me to move my own, and if I moved my jaw in sharp jerks, I could form words. Given my mouth was already open, I could let my tongue do most of the talking. At least, this was what I thought. What came out was a gargled mess of vowels and consonants that vaguely resembled: 

“You look nice.” My mouth stayed swung open, anticipating a response. 

“Thanks.” She had said, politely enough to keep the date going, but not enough to warrant a direct reply. Her attention turned to the menu. 

As it got tighter around my face, my eyelids became harder to close. The shrink-wrapped skin pushing against mine caused the lids to scrape against my corneas. Every blink was a strain until I didn’t have the strength to shut them anymore. I pointed, and she ordered my food for me. I grabbed my utensils in preparation for my coming lack of motor skills. While we waited, my eyes began to dry out. 

“Are you ok?” She said carefully, as if not to offend me. 

After some resistance from the back of my neck, I managed to swing my head into a nod. She looked down at the table.  

When the food arrived, I was a doll. Poseable, sure, but not by much. There was no movement between my legs, my torso, or my eyelids. My arms still gave way to a little, but it had to be in fast jerks and swings. I took coarse painful breaths. The waiter asked if I was alright, but my head wouldn’t give anymore. My neck had become so constricted that any pull forward yielded nothing. After a minute of pulling, as both my date and the waiter attempted to call for help, I managed a nod.  

There was a sharp tearing sound as his skin pulled apart at the back. I raised my arm in a sharp motion to feel it, and the fork, still held in my hand, stabbed into his forehead. The few muscles in his arm untensed over mine as he directed it to the wound. Taking advantage of this release, I grabbed the exposed skin at the back of his neck and began to peel. Pulling myself out of him as he attempted to tense harder, I continued until there was nothing of him left grasping onto me. 

With the restaurant in hysterics, and myself damp, bloody, and in the nude, I ran for the exit. I’d never felt the breeze so clearly. 

If I didn’t shave, it took him longer to envelop me. This led to less sleep. Work started at seven, ended at four, and when I got home, I'd clean, then cook, and then clean again. When that was done, it’d be close to nine, accounting for leisure time. This gave me about three hours of sleep. When he’d wake me up, I’d shave, head to toe. He’d only begin to unstitch himself when I returned to bed and presented. Without my body supporting him, he was a sack of loose skin. The muscles that lined the interior of his porous suit gave him only enough motor function to unstitch himself. This took several hours. When it was done, he’d meet me with a back facing hug, latching the loose flaps around my body. I’d become very good at stitching him back up once inside of him; it took almost no time at all.  

If you put your tongue to the sides of your mouth, you can get a rough sense of what the lining inside of him felt like. This is non-keratinized stratified squamous epithelium. It’s the same kind of tissue used for the interior of the vaginal canal. A mouth is a more convenient example than that, as its tissue is probably closer to his (and I doubt you have immediate access to tongue the interior of the latter). 

When the stitching was finished, it’d seal shut. The cut outs for my facial features would suck up against me. His skin pulled my breasts deeper into my chest, making it hard to breathe. I’d been doing this for as long as I could remember, and the week earlier, it had started getting tighter. 

That weekend I had a date. The first date I’d ever been on. As everyone else had, she met me as him. It felt deceptive in a sense. On the other hand, this had been who I always was, and as far as she knew there was no deviance to that. If she liked the skin I wore, why should it matter? 

Work let me take the day. I spent it getting ready, which was mostly his doing. As per usual we repeated the routine; I shaved, he watched, I presented, he unstitched, I watched, he enveloped me, and finally I stitched again. There were his outfits and mine. Mine was a sizeable collection of thrifted dresses, but mostly just comfortable pants. His were for work, the bare minimum coworker clothes. We wore his, of course. Rarely did I have the time to wear my own. 

When you’re living inside somebody else's skin, everything’s secondhand. If I pet a cat, the only sensation is the pressure passing through his hand to mine. A hug, or any sort of affection, is buffered. Any sense of texture or warmth is muted. Her arms wrapped around me, him, and I felt close to nothing. 

It had gotten particularly tight that day. The hours leading up to the date (post stitching) it shrunk progressively. Now that I was there, sitting down in front of her, it was undeniable. Pushed so hard against the skin surrounding my mouth that I could barely speak, and so locked around my legs I couldn’t move. He was going to choke me before long. 

“It’s so nice to finally be doing this.” My date had said pleasantly. 

She took a minute before showing any signs of discomfort at my discomfort. The arms were loose enough for me to move my own, and if I moved my jaw in sharp jerks, I could form words. Given my mouth was already open, I could let my tongue do most of the talking. At least, this was what I thought. What came out was a gargled mess of vowels and consonants that vaguely resembled: 

“You look nice.” My mouth stayed swung open, anticipating a response. 

“Thanks.” She had said, politely enough to keep the date going, but not enough to warrant a direct reply. Her attention turned to the menu. 

As it got tighter around my face, my eyelids became harder to close. The shrink-wrapped skin pushing against mine caused the lids to scrape against my corneas. Every blink was a strain until I didn’t have the strength to shut them anymore. I pointed, and she ordered my food for me. I grabbed my utensils in preparation for my coming lack of motor skills. While we waited, my eyes began to dry out. 

“Are you ok?” She said carefully, as if not to offend me. 

After some resistance from the back of my neck, I managed to swing my head into a nod. She looked down at the table.  

When the food arrived, I was a doll. Poseable, sure, but not by much. There was no movement between my legs, my torso, or my eyelids. My arms still gave way to a little, but it had to be in fast jerks and swings. I took coarse painful breaths. The waiter asked if I was alright, but my head wouldn’t give anymore. My neck had become so constricted that any pull forward yielded nothing. After a minute of pulling, as both my date and the waiter attempted to call for help, I managed a nod.  

There was a sharp tearing sound as his skin pulled apart at the back. I raised my arm in a sharp motion to feel it, and the fork, still held in my hand, stabbed into his forehead. The few muscles in his arm untensed over mine as he directed it to the wound. Taking advantage of this release, I grabbed the exposed skin at the back of his neck and began to peel. Pulling myself out of him as he attempted to tense harder, I continued until there was nothing of him left grasping onto me. 

With the restaurant in hysterics, and myself damp, bloody, and in the nude, I ran for the exit. I’d never felt the breeze so clearly. 

There’s a mound of hair stuck to my shower drain. In a week it’ll grow mold, and though I want to, I won’t throw it out before then. I know this because it’s still there, and since yesterday I haven’t changed. I’ll change tomorrow; it’s on my list. A list I haven’t written yet, and though I want to, I know I won’t. By tomorrow morning I’ll have forgotten about it, and today’s needs will be replaced without the effort of closure. It’ll be a week before any of this bothers me, the week it grows mold. 

Tuesday, I spend twenty minutes setting up reminders for what’s to be done on Wednesday. On Wednesday, I listen to three; take out the trash, eat dinner, and do the dishes. This will be the biggest win of the week, despite the four tasks I’ve avoided. Thursday’s a blip, the mound of hair is added to my list Friday, and by Sunday I’ve completed two more tasks (both of which are repeats of Tuesday’s). The same day I receive income assistance, the following Wednesday, is when I notice the lack of mold. 

Stepping into the shower, my heels crunch over the center of the drain. The feeling is coarse, until I step aside, where my soles meet a slime. Reaching out through the dead strands is a network of locks sopping with coconut shampoo, and strawberry conditioner. The original hair hasn’t molded. It’s woven into a wired mass, giving way to the new strands pulling toward each corner. 

I plan to set a reminder to clean the clump tomorrow, but I haven’t done it yet. First, I must put my clothes back on. The prospect of cleaning this sudden problem has ruined my energy. When I’m not showering, the curtain stays open. I don’t like to address it until it’s time to wash myself, so I avoid looking at it. As it stands, I’m clean once a week at best. The curtain stays open because I’m disgusting. My scalp is itching, my skin is oily, and my groins reek, but I have nothing to hide. Even occupied by shit covered counters, open spaces are cleaner. 

On Thursday I realize I’ve forgotten to set a reminder to clean the hair. I’ll specify I don’t mean the Thursday after I tried to shower, but a week later. I’d been trying to get into a medical clinic for months, and one called. I didn’t answer, nor did I listen to the voicemail until the day after. In a week I have an appointment with them, and waiting for it has thrown me into a funk. Nothing will be done until it’s over, as it’s taken priority over the hair, which has taken priority over a shower, which has taken priority over the dishes, which has priority over everything. 

Today will be the last day I use my bathroom. The shower curtain now stays closed. Since last week, the strands have continued to expand, maintaining their slimed consistency. Strawberry coconut is now a punch to the nose. Hair runs along every surface, weaving itself into a carpet, filling the edges of the floor, and climbing up the walls. Dandruff peppers the air. The sounds of a tearing scalp ring out as I force open the toilet lid. 

My appointment is tomorrow. During the last seven days the hair covered half of my kitchen, and the reminders tacked to my cabinetry. Even though I want to, there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s third on my list, next to something that can’t happen yet, and to the groceries arriving in an hour. When my food arrives, I yell for them to leave it outside. In the time it took them to get here, the door’s been blocked shut. It’s six, when I can switch tasks it’ll be seven, after I get dressed it’ll take me half an hour to lay down, at which point I’ll need an hour to sleep, but with fear of the hair, maybe it takes two, which leaves me at a time I can’t recall. It’s best to plan to sleep now. 

I’m blind when I wake up. My body's numb, but tight. There’s a distinct tension against my forehead, like a roughly pulled ponytail. My hands reach for my eyes whose eyelids won’t, or can’t, open. They don’t have their usual grip; my fingers glide over my face. Plugged deep into my nose is the now sickening scent of strawberry coconut. Punching at the layer restricting my face, I gain some vision. Everything is covered in hair. I see it in flashes. My hands are covered. I claw at myself to see more. There’s a layer of shampoo sludge. My fist meets my eyes again as the strands seal over. 

When I sit up, it isn’t my body that’s restricted, but my head. My hair has become interwoven with the mass. It moves with me as I stumble to the bathroom. There’s no use trying to see now, as a familiar crunching fills the space. The sound gets denser as I approach what I assume is the shower. With each inhale more loose hair fills the gaps in my mouth. 

My hands meet the stiffest part of the mound, the drain, and I pull. It only takes a minute before it starts to loosen, and the growth peels the tension away from my forehead. It takes two minutes for me to see again, and when I can, most of the hair is gone. Reduced to a tuft of wispy mold. It meets the trash can with a wet thud. 

I’m clean now, refreshed by a shower. When I look down, there’s a mound of hair stuck to the drain. In about a week it’ll grow mold, and though I want to, I won’t throw it out before then. I know this because it’s still there, and in the last four weeks I haven’t changed. I’ll change tomorrow; it’s on my list. 

There’s a mound of hair stuck to my shower drain. In a week it’ll grow mold, and though I want to, I won’t throw it out before then. I know this because it’s still there, and since yesterday I haven’t changed. I’ll change tomorrow; it’s on my list. A list I haven’t written yet, and though I want to, I know I won’t. By tomorrow morning I’ll have forgotten about it, and today’s needs will be replaced without the effort of closure. It’ll be a week before any of this bothers me, the week it grows mold. 

Tuesday, I spend twenty minutes setting up reminders for what’s to be done on Wednesday. On Wednesday, I listen to three; take out the trash, eat dinner, and do the dishes. This will be the biggest win of the week, despite the four tasks I’ve avoided. Thursday’s a blip, the mound of hair is added to my list Friday, and by Sunday I’ve completed two more tasks (both of which are repeats of Tuesday’s). The same day I receive income assistance, the following Wednesday, is when I notice the lack of mold. 

Stepping into the shower, my heels crunch over the center of the drain. The feeling is coarse, until I step aside, where my soles meet a slime. Reaching out through the dead strands is a network of locks sopping with coconut shampoo, and strawberry conditioner. The original hair hasn’t molded. It’s woven into a wired mass, giving way to the new strands pulling toward each corner. 

I plan to set a reminder to clean the clump tomorrow, but I haven’t done it yet. First, I must put my clothes back on. The prospect of cleaning this sudden problem has ruined my energy. When I’m not showering, the curtain stays open. I don’t like to address it until it’s time to wash myself, so I avoid looking at it. As it stands, I’m clean once a week at best. The curtain stays open because I’m disgusting. My scalp is itching, my skin is oily, and my groins reek, but I have nothing to hide. Even occupied by shit covered counters, open spaces are cleaner. 

On Thursday I realize I’ve forgotten to set a reminder to clean the hair. I’ll specify I don’t mean the Thursday after I tried to shower, but a week later. I’d been trying to get into a medical clinic for months, and one called. I didn’t answer, nor did I listen to the voicemail until the day after. In a week I have an appointment with them, and waiting for it has thrown me into a funk. Nothing will be done until it’s over, as it’s taken priority over the hair, which has taken priority over a shower, which has taken priority over the dishes, which has priority over everything. 

Today will be the last day I use my bathroom. The shower curtain now stays closed. Since last week, the strands have continued to expand, maintaining their slimed consistency. Strawberry coconut is now a punch to the nose. Hair runs along every surface, weaving itself into a carpet, filling the edges of the floor, and climbing up the walls. Dandruff peppers the air. The sounds of a tearing scalp ring out as I force open the toilet lid. 

My appointment is tomorrow. During the last seven days the hair covered half of my kitchen, and the reminders tacked to my cabinetry. Even though I want to, there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s third on my list, next to something that can’t happen yet, and to the groceries arriving in an hour. When my food arrives, I yell for them to leave it outside. In the time it took them to get here, the door’s been blocked shut. It’s six, when I can switch tasks it’ll be seven, after I get dressed it’ll take me half an hour to lay down, at which point I’ll need an hour to sleep, but with fear of the hair, maybe it takes two, which leaves me at a time I can’t recall. It’s best to plan to sleep now. 

I’m blind when I wake up. My body's numb, but tight. There’s a distinct tension against my forehead, like a roughly pulled ponytail. My hands reach for my eyes whose eyelids won’t, or can’t, open. They don’t have their usual grip; my fingers glide over my face. Plugged deep into my nose is the now sickening scent of strawberry coconut. Punching at the layer restricting my face, I gain some vision. Everything is covered in hair. I see it in flashes. My hands are covered. I claw at myself to see more. There’s a layer of shampoo sludge. My fist meets my eyes again as the strands seal over. 

When I sit up, it isn’t my body that’s restricted, but my head. My hair has become interwoven with the mass. It moves with me as I stumble to the bathroom. There’s no use trying to see now, as a familiar crunching fills the space. The sound gets denser as I approach what I assume is the shower. With each inhale more loose hair fills the gaps in my mouth. 

My hands meet the stiffest part of the mound, the drain, and I pull. It only takes a minute before it starts to loosen, and the growth peels the tension away from my forehead. It takes two minutes for me to see again, and when I can, most of the hair is gone. Reduced to a tuft of wispy mold. It meets the trash can with a wet thud. 

I’m clean now, refreshed by a shower. When I look down, there’s a mound of hair stuck to the drain. In about a week it’ll grow mold, and though I want to, I won’t throw it out before then. I know this because it’s still there, and in the last four weeks I haven’t changed. I’ll change tomorrow; it’s on my list. 

There’s a mound of hair stuck to my shower drain. In a week it’ll grow mold, and though I want to, I won’t throw it out before then. I know this because it’s still there, and since yesterday I haven’t changed. I’ll change tomorrow; it’s on my list. A list I haven’t written yet, and though I want to, I know I won’t. By tomorrow morning I’ll have forgotten about it, and today’s needs will be replaced without the effort of closure. It’ll be a week before any of this bothers me, the week it grows mold. 

Tuesday, I spend twenty minutes setting up reminders for what’s to be done on Wednesday. On Wednesday, I listen to three; take out the trash, eat dinner, and do the dishes. This will be the biggest win of the week, despite the four tasks I’ve avoided. Thursday’s a blip, the mound of hair is added to my list Friday, and by Sunday I’ve completed two more tasks (both of which are repeats of Tuesday’s). The same day I receive income assistance, the following Wednesday, is when I notice the lack of mold. 

Stepping into the shower, my heels crunch over the center of the drain. The feeling is coarse, until I step aside, where my soles meet a slime. Reaching out through the dead strands is a network of locks sopping with coconut shampoo, and strawberry conditioner. The original hair hasn’t molded. It’s woven into a wired mass, giving way to the new strands pulling toward each corner. 

I plan to set a reminder to clean the clump tomorrow, but I haven’t done it yet. First, I must put my clothes back on. The prospect of cleaning this sudden problem has ruined my energy. When I’m not showering, the curtain stays open. I don’t like to address it until it’s time to wash myself, so I avoid looking at it. As it stands, I’m clean once a week at best. The curtain stays open because I’m disgusting. My scalp is itching, my skin is oily, and my groins reek, but I have nothing to hide. Even occupied by shit covered counters, open spaces are cleaner. 

On Thursday I realize I’ve forgotten to set a reminder to clean the hair. I’ll specify I don’t mean the Thursday after I tried to shower, but a week later. I’d been trying to get into a medical clinic for months, and one called. I didn’t answer, nor did I listen to the voicemail until the day after. In a week I have an appointment with them, and waiting for it has thrown me into a funk. Nothing will be done until it’s over, as it’s taken priority over the hair, which has taken priority over a shower, which has taken priority over the dishes, which has priority over everything. 

Today will be the last day I use my bathroom. The shower curtain now stays closed. Since last week, the strands have continued to expand, maintaining their slimed consistency. Strawberry coconut is now a punch to the nose. Hair runs along every surface, weaving itself into a carpet, filling the edges of the floor, and climbing up the walls. Dandruff peppers the air. The sounds of a tearing scalp ring out as I force open the toilet lid. 

My appointment is tomorrow. During the last seven days the hair covered half of my kitchen, and the reminders tacked to my cabinetry. Even though I want to, there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s third on my list, next to something that can’t happen yet, and to the groceries arriving in an hour. When my food arrives, I yell for them to leave it outside. In the time it took them to get here, the door’s been blocked shut. It’s six, when I can switch tasks it’ll be seven, after I get dressed it’ll take me half an hour to lay down, at which point I’ll need an hour to sleep, but with fear of the hair, maybe it takes two, which leaves me at a time I can’t recall. It’s best to plan to sleep now. 

I’m blind when I wake up. My body's numb, but tight. There’s a distinct tension against my forehead, like a roughly pulled ponytail. My hands reach for my eyes whose eyelids won’t, or can’t, open. They don’t have their usual grip; my fingers glide over my face. Plugged deep into my nose is the now sickening scent of strawberry coconut. Punching at the layer restricting my face, I gain some vision. Everything is covered in hair. I see it in flashes. My hands are covered. I claw at myself to see more. There’s a layer of shampoo sludge. My fist meets my eyes again as the strands seal over. 

When I sit up, it isn’t my body that’s restricted, but my head. My hair has become interwoven with the mass. It moves with me as I stumble to the bathroom. There’s no use trying to see now, as a familiar crunching fills the space. The sound gets denser as I approach what I assume is the shower. With each inhale more loose hair fills the gaps in my mouth. 

My hands meet the stiffest part of the mound, the drain, and I pull. It only takes a minute before it starts to loosen, and the growth peels the tension away from my forehead. It takes two minutes for me to see again, and when I can, most of the hair is gone. Reduced to a tuft of wispy mold. It meets the trash can with a wet thud. 

I’m clean now, refreshed by a shower. When I look down, there’s a mound of hair stuck to the drain. In about a week it’ll grow mold, and though I want to, I won’t throw it out before then. I know this because it’s still there, and in the last four weeks I haven’t changed. I’ll change tomorrow; it’s on my list.