I wake up with a scream.  Mine. I always try to travel light at night but this. . . On the pillow next to mine, Kat opens one eye then the other.  When did you shave your head? I ask, shaking like a newborn pup that dropped and landed in our bed.

Oh, some guy crept in last night and cut it. I think he was a modern ninja. He said he wanted to bring my chestnut locks to his master. His master thought chestnut was just for horses. There might be a ritual involved. Maybe even barter. My lock for seven of your dribbling goats that you promised could talk like big shit mountain gods. I couldn’t see much of him in the dark, but he was kind of cute dressed as a simple wood gatherer. Then he flew out the window like a skylark. Or maybe the floor opened up for him. I bet he could walk on water too. Maybe surf on a wave of my hair. I don’t think it was a dream.

Very funny, I say.

I dive head first under the sheets.

I’m Jacques Cousteau without a flashlight, looking for signs of hair.