Hole in my floor.

There is a hole in my floor.

Not a large hole. In fact, if I hadn’t dropped a cigarette at the end of my bed last week, I wouldn’t have seen it myself. Barely discernable to a body on the move.

There is a hole in my floor, and when I found it, I thought it was merely a divot.

A gouge from a bed frame. Perhaps the pointed leg of a chair.

At first glance, it seemed shallow. I thought, well, filling it in and sanding it down would be an easy project. A finger full of wood filler and a scrap of sandpaper was easily sourced. Sure, I had both already, and it would only take a moment. So, I did just that. After drying, I went to sand the patch, and noticed something peculiar.

There is a hole in my floor. And it is filled with something.

I had a hard time with the texture. Fibrous. Matted. I thought cat hair perhaps, or an amber coated dog. Small ends kept surfacing as I sanded. Sticking up, rolling out, and pulling more with them. This was meant to be an easy project…

It’s not a large hole. Maybe about the width of a standard screw. Which made this even more frustrating, to be honest, as I knew it was a quick fix. How did these hairs even get in there? I got down on my knees, shifting on the hard wood. Pressing my face to the floor. The hair was twisted together, really stuck in there...now, I was curious. Undoing a safety pin from my jean pocket, I bent it outwards, and began to try digging the hairs out.

There is a hole in my floor. And it is filled with hair.

The hair came loose at last, but only from the sides of the hole. I pulled on it, all together, and the more I pulled, the longer it got, like it was wound around an empty spool. The ends were dry, brittle. But as more length came out, it became soft, lush, and smelled of tea tree oil.

Finally, the lock stopped unraveling, like it was stuck at its end. There must have been a good 20 inches of hair wrapped around my knuckles, about the length of my own. Any sane person would trim it, give up, and move on. But...I couldn’t help myself. I had already invested more time than originally intended, and had to see it through. It was my day off, I guess. So why not. Tightening my grip, I gave the lock one swift pull. It wouldn't budge. My head began to ache. Just a muscle spasm in my neck, I thought. But holy shit, it burned. I stopped to massage it out with my free hand. An awkward angle, maybe. It just needed a stretch. Later.

I clenched my fist again, and gave the bundle a hard yank. The pain in my head got sharper. Right at the base of my skull. I’d deal with it later, I thought. This had to end. Another pull. A tearing sound. Another yank. A big rip. One more. It sounded like Velcro separating from beneath the wood, as the tension left the lock in my fingers. Finally, the job is done. But the pain in my head was like fiery hot pins piercing my skin. Like a sting from a wasp, or a graze from a lit cigarette...

There’s a hole in my floor. And it was filled with a lock.

From where, I wasn’t sure. I ran the strands through my fingers, searching for the end. And after a good bundle, my fingers hit the roots. A cluster. Wet and shiny, dripping red. At that moment, I felt something warm run down the back of my neck. Raising my fingers to the sore spot on my head, I felt a patch, about the size of a dime. Where there was no hair. Bald. Sore. Bleeding.

- y