The Anomaly

A little bit of hair gets in my face so I run my fingers through it. Something happens. I feel something. I search around, the right side of my head, to see if anything seems out of place. I'll find this thing, bug, debris, whatever it is. Get rid of it.

My nail hits a bump. Not a bug, small pimple it feels like, fastened to my head whatever it is. I push on it, I pick at it, it remains the same. It doesn't hurt, it isn't sore, it isn't big or small, it isn't terribly anything. Odd, I think. I don't recall this being here... Its presence mystifies me. I've run my fingers through my hair, I'm combed, I've scratched and poked, I've popped pimples on this head before. I feel like I would have come across it.

I go to the mirror and bow my head, hoping that my top peripheral will just be able to make it out. It doesn't work. My eyes can't both stay attached and see the anomaly. I find a hand mirror to try and direct the reflection my way, but that doesn't work either. I get a camera from my desk and hold it above the area, snapping picture after picture, two dozen in all, with flash and without. I don't see it. I don't see it, but I feel it, it's there. And there's no one around to ask for help.

Toothpick, I think, and I scurry to the kitchen to retrieve one. I feel around again and find the spot and, holding the hair aside with one hand, bring the toothpick in to do some work. First I put it next to it, just feeling the side. Nothing too quick now, don't want it to hurt. But it doesn't. So I move the point on top of it. Press gently. Gently but firmly. Nothing happens. Firmer. Still nothing. I remove the toothpick briefly to see if its covered in any substance, blood, puss. But it's clean. So I put it back, and this time I really give it a go. I push the thing in. I stab myself. And I can feel it, I can feel it going in, but still it doesn't hurt, and whatever it is I've bested it now, I can tell. I swivel the toothpick around, make sure the thing is good and depleted. But again, as I inspect the toothpick after the job, I see nothing. The toothpick is as clean and sharp as ever.

I feel around again with my finger. I need to get to the bottom of this. And I feel it, this thing, whatever it is. And it's there. I scrape and I scrape and I scrape at it, hoping for blood, for skin, for anything that would give me some sign that I'm winning. I feel hairs falling past my ears and neck, collateral follicle damage. I am going to destroy this thing, I am, I will, I must. It is not better than me, it is not smarter, it has no brain, it serves no purpose. It's just there. It has just shown up demanding occupancy. Not on my head. Not on my watch.

And the truth is, I pick at it until morning. I am on the floor, eyelids burning. Puddle of hair in my lap, bald spot like a surgery patient. But still I cannot see it. I look in the mirror and it isn't there. But it is, it is there. I feel it. I can feel it under my nails, on the top of my head, a part of me, living.