The Kenyan Seer

The more I stress, the balder I get. Insomnia, migraines, rage, tears, shortness of breath those are the normal ways stress manifest physically but for me my hair pays the price.  It is sad. I want to do something about it but as a creature  of habit, this has been hard to break. At one of my temples, lies a patchy spot: rough, unkempt thatch’s, alternating gaps of hair and scalp. A physical testament to the emotional turmoil the mind has been sailing through. Reddit says it’s trichotillomania  and treatment is therapy, head scarves, stress balls, and tretinoin. Self diagnosis says I’m in the stage four. Death is looming. Though this patch is met with pity, it has been my body’s way to say we only have each other. My bald spot has held me together like no other. With no shoulder to lean on, I have leaned on her strands. Laying the fardeaux of my heart at her feet, till her follicles could bear no more. My teeth comfort her. They say that this too shall pass. They speak of...

                                                            “Wash your feet before you come into bed.” I never wash my feet before bed at home. All I do is shower in the evening, play hard till it is dark, sit on the couch and wait for dinner, and doze off ignoring any pleas to wake up and eat. My mum carries me to bed. Whenever I find out that they had meat for supper and I missed it, I promise myself to stay up next time. However, today I am not at home. I am in a sleepover. I love girl sleepovers. My mom lets me sleep at other people's homes. She has faith in the good of mankind.  This time around, I am at Jackie's. I met Jackie when I was 6 years old; I am now 10. We became friends through my mum. At that time, she was working at a Shell petrol station. She was working at a petrol station owned by...