found drama

There is a single hair growing out of the whites of my eye. It’s a short, thick, coarse black hair. Like a beard’s whisker two days after the razor. The hair is bothersome, irritating. Every blink is like passing a kidney stone, every sidelong glance a slash to the wrist. Fine pink lines radiate out from where the hair breaks pierces through the sclera. I lean in close to the mirror, get a good look at it. It’s an ugly thing–hideous and out of place and painful. So painful. I gather up some tweezers and slowly, delicately move them toward that short little stub of hair. It takes all of my willpower not to blink but I get the tips of the tweezers to pinch that very tip of the hair. I tug. Even the most gentle pull feels like it will yank the entire eyeball from its socket. But the hair itself is far more painful. I tug again, more forcefully this time. In the mirror, I can see the surface of the sclera cling to the hair. My vision blurs, distorts. The pain is unbearable. But then there is a soft slurping and popping sound and the hair rips free.

About Rob Friesel

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