comb

Hair grooming accessories like monsters have many teeth. And they can be equally vicious when working to detangle and get the knots out. I recall this hell as a kid. My mom always directing the menace. Now (though my hair is short), I don’t struggle as much. Even when my hair was long it wasn’t that big of a deal. When I was younger, my hair used to be volumous, curly, wavy, huge. But I got older. Time moved forward in a linear fashion like Nyan Cat stretching on forever (yet never eating his Pop-Tart body), the oxygen filled my lungs and dried my skin. Boa constrictors lived and died on jungle floors in the Amazon, shedding skin, hunting and capturing their prey, slowly digesting and laying eggs. And I, here, grew older. We all did. Except you, Benjamin. Every morning and sometimes evenings I pull the comb through. After the shower I pull the comb through wet hair. In the summer, I don’t do a damn thing but sleep on it damp and have the night have its way with it while I dream of dead relatives and a work commute I have long forgotten. The Conair light purplish/silvery comb. The comb I’ve had for years and years, the black one my mom has had for longer. With the white gums and the red teeth. It’s like Halloween or Christmas. I wonder sometimes how the plastic becomes molded. It must start out soft before hardening. Who engineered it? Patented? What a revolutionary idea for people to tame their manes, especially during a time when lice was more prevalent. Messy mornings with a spilled yolk and cold egg whites. Lukewarm toast still soggy holding melted butter. Hair gel after morning sex. Slicking it back like it’s the 1950s. The acceleration of technology and talking wires. Linemen and trains. All plain colors fit for a Puritan. Thick history book sandwich with no meat. Sometimes headaches come when you’re not even hungry. Morning routine remains sacred and unchanged. Military-fashion. Always making your bed.