It’s raining hair
in my room again.
An inch of thick brown hair that no one will ever miss
falls to the floor in clumps
as I read.

It’s raining hair
in class again.
The rubber bands, the silly putty, the clicky pen --
no match for the itch in my hands to
pull
pull
pull
until I’m calm again.

It’s raining hair
on my bed again.
All I need is that one eyelash,
I swear.
It’s short, it’s sharp, it doesn’t belong --
just one, and I promise I’ll stop.
One more,
and the itch has won.
One more,
and the damage is done.

It’s raining hair
over my sink again
'cause my eyebrows needed a trim.
This time I’ll behave, mom, I’ll make sure it won’t get out of hand.
Just let me get rid of that one there
and I promise this time I’ll keep all my hair.

But then the rain stops and the sun comes out,
revealing the effects of the storm.
It's horrifying, it’s disgusting,
and I’m repulsed I stooped so low --
don't I know it’ll take weeks to re-grow?
So I vow to refrain,
but the itch drives me insane --
tomorrow’s forecast calls for rain.