I have a difficult relationship with hair.
That day, I was sweeping dust off my cold, marble floor with my now-mostly-decapitated broom. Poor fellow has seen a lot of dirt in its heyday. Probably charmed maids around the country and cleaned its way into the twenty-first century. Now, it almost refuses to do its only job. Now it mostly mopes in a corner, bent and broken. My broom is exhausted and disappointed with the world in general.
And its sworn enemy is hair.
Hair which clings to its bristles. Hair which doesn’t go into the dustpan. Long, ugly, thin strands which come out of nowhere.
I shook the hair off, striking my poor broom against the wall. Some fell on the floor in ugly clumps. Some stuck on the broom, like obstinate moss. I glanced at my poor, old broom, as it stood petrified in a corner.
“You go on, I’ll just rest here,” he almost said.
After the broom gave up, my saviour, my mop was ready for me. Now, that guy has true courage. Eager to face the toughest dirt and swoop it in its watery hug. Then, it will just squeeze everything out. Easy, peezy, lemon squeezy.
But it hadn’t met hair.
See, the only good place for hair to be is on the head. It’s all down-hill after that.
It’s summertime. Hair either sticks on your sweaty forehead, or keeps rubbing against your eyelids. It pity those people who have a full beard. So. Much. Maintenance.
The mop did what mops do, successfully. But hair was still lumped, glued to the floor, now wet and sticky. I waited for it to dry up, so I could begin the whole charade again. Hair makes me feel I am living in Groundhog Day.
I try to gather hair now, manually, picking up strands one by one. My broom has sunk into depression. Sitting in a corner, he says, “Will you replace me for a Roomba, now?”
“No, broom,” I say, and sigh. “Hair will take apart its circuits. You’re going nowhere.”
Broom must have said something, but I didn’t hear. I fling the dried up clumps of hair in the dustbin.
Then, I charge my trimmer.