Mr. Gland said he wanted my hair for a wig because his wife was bald from cancer treatments. I said there are other wigs that she could have, surely, and he said true, but my hair perfectly matched his wife’s hair, and could he have it, please?
And I said wait a minute I’ve seen your wife’s hair (The Glands are my next door neighbors and Mrs. Gland ran the After School Mancala Club when I was in 6th grade), and it was fine and silvery. What I mean is her hair was not very much like my hair at all.
But your hair is like my wife’s hair when I met her, he said, when I first loved her. And I said that is romantic; however, I have been growing this hair for many years into a long braided ponytail that goes all the way down my back. I wanted to grow it this way since I joined the After School Viking Club in 7th grade and saw illustrations of the Valkyries in the D’Aulaires’ Illustrated Norse Myths. And he told me that not wanting to give up my hair made it that much more important that I give it up; that such a special sacrifice would glorify me.
Mr. Gland was naked from the waist up, washing his car, and the pressurized water he shot at the passenger side door made suds fly. He had a can of domestic beer in his free hand.
So what do you say, kiddo? he said.
And over the hose noises, I spoke up: Mr. Gland, you have to know that I can’t give you my hair; it isn’t even appropriate for you to request it.
And he said one hundred dollars and I said no, and he said five hundred dollars, and I said no, no, and no.
Think of my children then, he said, don’t you want them to grow up with a mother who has healthy hair? Of course I do, I said, and I referred him to several wig dealers—Tanya’s mom made wonderful wigs, I had heard, from Tanya, who was the secretary of the After School Mineralogy Club. But it was only my hair that would do, apparently, because it was soft and straw yellow, like the hair he remembered from hiking around Richart Lake with his wife when they lived inside the health of their youth.
That’s a lovely memory but I can’t, I can’t, I said.
Mr. Gland called his children, Bradley and Tanner, to the driveway. They were weeping.
Give us your hair! they said.
I said no, children, no.
Mr. Gland wheeled out his emaciated wife. Mrs. Gland had aged since chemo had started. She looked frail.
Your hair, she mumbled, your hair.
I said my hair is my power and identity. I was thinking of dying it green.
GREEN! The family shouted in unison.
You better fucking not do that, Bradley said.
If. You. Dye. That Beautiful. Hair. Green. (Mrs. Gland said) I’m. Going. To. Let. Death. Take. Me.
I said fine, I won’t dye it green, but I still don’t want to give up a part of myself on demand, even for a worthy cause. They were so disappointed. I had to turn away.
That evening at the Mineralogy Club meeting I was hosting in my backyard, we were pouring over some feldspar and drinking sodas at the outside table when I heard a snip behind me and felt a dear weight drop. I turned around and in the light of the lemongrass-scented anti-mosquito candles, I saw Mr. Gland holding pinking shears in one hand and a long rope of hair in the other.
It had to be done, he said. Forgive me.
As he scampered off, I felt my life power sink to my sneakers and leak onto the yard. And there was nothing I could do about it except wait for the hair to grow back.
