Hair kills.
We also kill our hair, painlessly.
Every month I go to the salon and trim my hair. Is my hair part of my body or non-body? I assume for every single bit of my body, if removed, would cause me pain. Why would something totally incapable of causing me pain grow and attach to my head?
Cutting it even has a sense of 'coolness' inside. Listening to the sounds of the scissors and seeing how the blades tidy up the ends of my hair ease me with the feeling that I am organized, and at the same time, less disorganized.
Pulling one's hair is even more painful than cutting it. That's why I told my masseur. So, sometimes, it's better to get rid of things than holding it to prevent a potential pain from tormenting me.
Hair links. The tiny string of silk that links up the living and the dead (as in the film Silk) is a threat. It is a connection of revenge, hatred and love, always misunderstood and mistaken.
The hair is also the grotesque. It blocks the pipe and comes from a monstrous body with an ill-boned frame and a contourless face. It's deformed and damaged, yet it's exotic and erotic. It's foreign and familiar at the same time. It's not just hair. It carries more than ordinariness with it (see Nicole Kidman's coming film, Fur).
Hair and fingernails still grow after one dies. Hair outlives us. It last longer in this physical world than us. When our body stops functioning, the hair takes its victory and prolongs our sense of living in the world, though not noticed very much.

Current reading: Considering Alan Ball, (ed) Thomas Fahy. (MFC, 2006). I have turned to non-fiction and documentaries from fiction and dramas. It's hard to find a good fictional book and film now. When would I finish my chapter on the ear? It's the worst thing I have worked on. Fuck work.