A "Hairy" Situation

There was a hair in the potatoes.

The customer sat with his arms crossed. He told Belle Star about the hair in his potatoes and Belle Star took the plate and looked at the hair in the potatoes. She said, "It isn't my hair." The man said, "It isn't mine either." Another customer, a man wearing a flannel shirt and blazing white Air Jordans, leaned towards the plate and said, "It isn't mine." I looked at the hair, black and long, and said, "Where'd it come from?"
"F*** if I know," Belle Star said. She took the plate away, scraped the potatoes and the hair into the trash, and handed me the plate to wash.
The customer took a sip of his coffee. But checked to see if anything was in his cup before he did so.

I knew this girl once. When I was young. Maybe eight or nine. She practiced the piano while her father lay beneath the piano bench. Her legs didn't work. She could never press the pedals. She would say pedal and her father would press the pedal with his hand and she would say pedal and he would let go. She had long black hair. Wild hair that crept down to her waist. I always wanted to get tangled in her hair. I just wanted to walk past her and have her hair grab me and shoot between my arms and legs and cover my body. I wanted to live in her hair. I think I must have liked her.