Klempner
In one hand, I hold a single copper strand. In the other, a thread of brown.
My body freezes as my mind races through the possibilities.
I left my hotel room several hours earlier, slicking a hair into place over the crack between door and frame as I left. On my return, a hair was still in place and I entered my room assuming all was normal.
Now, however, in my left hand, I hold a hair just plucked from my own scalp: the mousy-brown shade of my current identity.
In the right hand, I hold the hair which dropped from my hotel room door as I returned, and which on casual inspection, I had taken to be the one I slicked into place as I left the room earlier.
But the right-hand hair is red.
And now I look at it, I recognise that shade: a deep burnished copper-auburn that many wom
