In the mirror shaving. I find a long grey hair, hiding. I separate it from the crowd and pull. It doesn’t budge. I exert a greater effort and again it refuses. With a great pain I give it the strength of my manhood. It finally gives way. But it has not been torn out. It multiples in length, its expansion significant in size. I pull a little more. I hold the fine end in my palm, the loop falling to the floor. I am afraid to go further, afraid of what it will do to me. I pull a little more. I could forget something vital, like a birthday or feeling. Its roots seem deep like a tree, unraveling from an unknown spool immersed in the soil of my skull. I pull a little more.