His Hair

A woman falls in love with a man because of his beautiful hair. However, his hair later becomes a problem.

“Come on! You’re always moaning that you want to meet a new man, and coming over with me will give you a greater chance!”

My friend’s shouting was toned down by the loud, pumping music and the thick humid air, making it only slightly possible to hear her pleading. She was right, I admitted to myself, but the small group of men sitting at the metallic table in the corner, staring at me like puppies in a shelter, didn’t seem to wet my appetite. My friend was also staring at me with pleading eyes, so in the end I gave in, much to her delight.

I reluctantly sat down and eyed up the competition. There were six men, varying in age and arguably species. Needless to say none of them gave me that jolt of excitement and attraction, the feeling of being shocked by electricity but the pain being somewhat a distinct pleasure. I was beginning to regret my decision but my thoughts of regret were suddenly paused when a new man walked over to our table and sat down with us. There was a bottle of cider in his right hand and another bottle for his friend in his left, whom of which had been staring at me with a constant longing in his wrinkled eyes for the past half an hour, much to my bitter distaste.

I stared at this new man in awe, gawping as though I had just discovered the Holy Grail. The reason why this man caught my attention was not only for his rugged looks, complete with his five o’clock shadow and caramelised tan, but for his long mane of dark hair that draped down his back, neatly tamed into a band. The shine from his hair reflected light so dazzling that I began to wonder if this man was my prince in shining armour.

It wasn’t long until I realised I had been staring at him for quite some time and now he was studying me, brows furrowed in confusion. I immediately composed and introduced myself.


We were mutually charmed by one another and we went on a few evenings out to try to get to know one another better. I didn’t like the idea of being with a criminal or a man who collected sea shells as a hobby; I think any woman would be in the same mind-set.
He took me to the latest bars and restaurants in London as he was quite wealthy. At first I was convinced he either worked part-time as a hair model or possibly a Greek God, but alas, he worked at his father’s real estate company. When he laughed, he would tilt his head at an angle and flick his dark wave of hair back, and I continually had to resist from reaching out my freckled hand and stroking what seemed like the smoothest of hair. I found myself imagining what it would feel like. Cashmere? Silk? Feathers? The thought of it teased me.


He’d asked for my hand in marriage two years later, underneath the stars, one hand holding my hand, the other holding an 18 carat gold diamond engagement ring. I replied to his answer with a breathless “Yes!” and embraced him in my arms, his hair covering me like a layer of black fur- Protecting me.

Four years has passed since our marriage and every morning I would wake up to my alarm, his hair grasped onto me like chains that, occasionally, gripped so tight onto the skin that it left marks. This happened most mornings, yet I grit my teeth and began to get ready for another gruelling day of paper work and making hot beverages at the office.

I always began my morning routine by grudgingly going into the en suite bathroom to tame my hair, as being married to a man whose hair is his art masterpiece had made me ever so obsessive over how my hair looked. Not only that, but as he was the famous artist of his own hair, he always had an opinion over how I sculpted my own.

I took it all in stride. Even when every morning I staggered into the bathroom and noticed that all of my hair supplies were inferior compared to his mass supply, sighing. We are married. I told myself every morning, brushing my teeth in a frantic speed, I love him despite the small things that annoy me.


A year later, we went out to celebrate his fortieth birthday. He was nine years older than I, but there’s no age limit for love, I always told myself. We had reservations at a restaurant called ‘Breaking Point’ and he pronounced his name to the woman at the door. That’s when I noticed. He flicked his shiny locks back whilst talking to her, his hair riding the wind, his lips parted in a full smile exposing his pearls. His hair was the stimulus of this reaction, and she responded with a look of surprise, her eyes wide open, and a look of awe on her face.

Ever since that night, I have found myself watching women’s reactions to seeing my husband’s hair for the first time. Each reaction is different. Sometimes she will watch with glinting eyes, dazed. Other times she will stare with narrowed eyes, jealous. Most times her eyes will be dancing, as though seducing her prey. It began to infiltrate my trust in him, even though I knew he would never betray me. It’s the hair I didn’t trust though, and the women who became bound to it.


A year later I found out my husband had betrayed me, with a woman with voluptuous hair which she wore so grand. I did not know how to feel, I felt inferior compared to her and I was obviously hurt and betrayed. However, there was something which gave me the satisfaction I needed, and also gave me self-realization.

I woke up to the sound of the door-bell continuously ringing like a baby bird in need of food. I hesitated to get out of bed, as I was in a current state of depression over my husband’s betrayal. My phone vibrated by my side, it was a text message off my husband telling me to open the door. I had kicked him out a week ago, and this was the first time I’d heard from him. I rolled out of bed, composed myself and made sure I looked irresistible.  I answered the door, a bouquet of flowers hitting me in the face- I knocked them out of his hands and they fell, scattered, onto the ground beneath. I saw his face in all its glory, and that’s when I noticed. I looked at my husband’s sculptured face, his tan still ever-glowing. I then looked at his masterpiece on his head.
A grey hair.
I did not know whether it had recently turned grey, or I had been too blinded by love to see it before, but it was there, as though he had accidentally gotten charcoal in his hair. It was then that I realised that I did not love him for who he was, I’d loved him for what he looked like and his glowing aura. I’d loved him for his hair, and now it had all changed.
Love can change, just like a black strand of hair turning grey. 

The End

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