Hair

Do you remember the Texas Mormon cult that was invaded and kids were carted off to foster care?

Consider the women’s hair — the stuff they piled on top of their heads, stacked up to around 3-4 inches’ worth of dead bodily protein.

Miles and miles of hair. Drains clogged with hair. Vats of Drano, at the ready to unclog drains on a weekly basis.

Gallons of shampoo. Kegs of it; water towers filled with shampoo.

One hour scheduled every morning for the washing, combing, roping, chaining, pinning, tying, taming, sculpting, nailing, and constructing of great edifices made of hair.

Chiropractic care for spines and necks needing adjustment due to the weight of baskets of hair.

Real-hair wig makers have got to have fantasies and dreams about raiding the compound, tainting all drinking water with powerful sedatives, then entering darkened rooms at night with scissors at the ready, carrying bags of hair ties to wrap around the long ropes and contractor’s garbage bags to hold the booty.

Pandemonium would strike the next morning in the women’s wing with the sound of weeping and wailing filling rooms and rushing down the halls like the flood of Noah.

But would there also be unspoken feelings of relief mixed into the stew of fear, shock and loss?

And what would they do with all that shampoo?