My hair gathered behind the dollhouse.
I used to hate when it got past my shoulders. It collected back there in globs. The way I find dust bunnies under my dresser now; that was my hair. When there was an opening, I would tuck it in my shirt, run to the trash can to dispose of it. Little auburn chunks. I was a surreptitious child. Mostly, I tried to sweep it under the dollhouse as if it would disappear into the carpet. Hoped my mother wouldn’t dust. That’s how I hid everything back then. With a wink. And scissors. A smile. A wish. Staring at lights on my closet door. I don’t remember my mother ever finding out so I wasn’t terrible at it either.
“I have never let my hair grow past my shoulders,” I say. “Some say that’s the weirdest thing about me.”
He looks at his hands.“Remember only one sentence has to be a lie to discount the whole thing.”
And try not to laugh
and try not to give
a single thing