Becky’s hair is trying to KILL me.

I absolutely love my wife’s beautiful, long locks.

I have never been a fan of the “pixie” cut or pretty much any female hairstyle that required a woman to blunt cut or shave the back of her neck.

For me, it’s always been about the Song of Solomon-esque flowing hair.

Maybe it was because the same style of long hair was so prevalent around me. My sister had it. Girls at church and school tended to have it. I mean, my cousin had such incredible long hair, they used it to represent a horse in their home video re-enactment of The Princess Bride. It was everywhere.

So, I guess it’s safe to assume I would have had an affinity for such tresses when I met my wife-to-be at the ripe, old age of 16.

But, as much as I love her hair, it has apparently taken on a mind of its own and started to turn against me.

Stop laughing…this is serious.

Obviously, I was somewhat prepared for the strands that would randomly fall out or gather into little ex-members of the “Becky’s Living Locks” club on the floor of our bathroom.

It’s to be expected. No big deal.

Then, there was the whole, pulling out loose hairs in the shower and sticking them on the shower wall until there were so many it started to look like Cousin It (from the Addam’s Family if you were not familiar with the reference) was murdered, chopped up into little pieces and left in not-so-subtle little warning spots for any other hairy creatures attempting to bath themselves in our house.

Not the most fun thing to deal with, especially when the hair is not removed and the moisture dries up leaving balls of follicular goodness all over the shampoo.

Still, I could handle it.

But lately, things have taken a bad turn. Somehow, dark has changed from being solely a reference to my wife’s hair and become a synonym for the intentions each discarded strand has for my very life.

Yep, her hair is trying to kill me. I don’t know why, either. I have always loved it and I’m the one usually telling her not to cut it too short.

And yet, it is out to end my life.

No, I’m not paranoid. Here is how it happens.

Somehow, in the midst of the washing and drying process, individual strands seek out only my shirts and begin to work their way into the fibers. Then, they lay and wait for the perfect moment to strike and attempt to take me out.

Usually, that moment is when I am driving a car. I start to feel a little tickle against my stomach or chest – as only a hair can manage – and then the sensation shifts from a tickle to an itch.

Commence the scratching.

Before I know it, I am driving full speed on the highway and looking down into my shirt to spot and remove the little assassin before I go insane from what I have now termed “Mexican Hair Torture”.

And to make things worse, I get a text message from the same hair strand, which has taken a selfie from inside my shirt just to taunt me and say good-bye since I am about to drive off a bridge. (It’s possible that part was just a dream)

Anyway, this keeps happening and I know for a fact her hairs are just going after me because Becky never, EVER, complains about them being in her shirt.

So, please, send me notes of encouragement or help me figure out to destroy the loose hairs before they have a chance to carry out their evil little missions because it is only getting worse…I just found one of Natalie’s hairs in my shirt yesterday.

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