Wish You Were Hair

When you step back and look at me. 

And it doesn't have to be a large step. 

You'll see that my life is just a series of piles. 

Piles of dirty clothes. 

Piles of slightly less dirty clothes that have been through the dryer with a Bounce sheet. 

Piles of books and history notes. 

Piles of failed manuscripts that Penthouse Letters turned down. 

And coming soon, a pile of bodies. 

Made up mostly of those Penthouse people I just mentioned. 

And also a pile of hair. 
From my arms. 

Because I haven't seen my friend Josh White in a long time. 

When you lose touch for long enough, you begin to forget what it is that your friends appreciate. 

But I think that Josh used to really enjoy my arm hair. 

I believe I can recall him rubbing his face in it. 

After getting me drunk and open-minded to such things.

His cousin Del is departing for Halifax, and that's what he's taking to Josh. 

From me. 

I'm not sure if airports have made a rule about carrying on body hair (yet). 

So that's something I have to do later. 

I'm trying to decide whether I want to use a traditional or electric razor. 

I'm surprisingly nervous about it.