The Hair Death
Doug Martin

"If your hair grows one inch longer, you will be dead," he says.
He slides the ruler behind his left ear. In his left hand is the candle. He looks into a handheld mirror in his right hand and pulls his own hair. He pulls it again with his left hand, looking. He catches, for a moment, his hair on fire.
He walks across the room and sits down. He crosses his legs. His burnt hair smells.
"It takes three seconds to die, you know?" he says. "It just took me two seconds to measure the length of your hair."
There is no power in the house. He looks into the mirror.
"Tomorrow, first thing, we'll call the barber," he says.
"Yes," she says. "First thing."
"Are you comfortable?" he asks.
"Like a blanket," she replies.
"Nights before we married, I used to play Monopoly with myself and dream of a girl so small she fit into my shoe. Then the ghost appeared. The ghost had no hair. It got really cold inside. I was incarcerated again for sneezing."
Outside now, one foot of snow in the city.
"The barber will come right over, first thing," she says, shaking her head.
"I believe you. Yes, he will. He will come right over. You're right. I'm sure he will. I'm sure," he says.