The first time I noticed a chunk of my hair missing, I blamed my hairdresser. I even walked into her shop ready to start World War III. I mean, how do you trim someone’s hair so badly that the left side looks like it’s in Form One and the right side is doing National Service? She swore she didn’t touch that part. We argued a little, but I still left blaming her skill set.

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Then, a few weeks later, I woke up one morning at my boyfriend’s place and found tiny strands of my hair sprinkled on the bedsheet. My heart skipped. “Ah, am I shedding?” I asked myself. Maybe my shampoo had expired. Maybe witches had held a midnight convention in my hair. I didn’t know.

But something told me to check a particular drawer. And guess what I found… a white envelope. It wasn’t sealed, and hair was poking out of the corner like it was trying to escape. When I opened it, I saw a whole bouquet of my hair inside.

I screamed, “Kash!”

He came running, half confused, half annoyed. “Kash, why are you cutting my hair? Why are you keeping it in this envelope?”

He just looked at me like I was the dramatic one and said, “I smell it when I miss you. It gets me closer to you.”

My anger melted but only slightly. Because who says something like that with a straight face? I wanted a normal explanation, like, “I want you to keep short natural hair,” not hair-sniffing romance. I told him he was messing up my hairline, and he apologized. He even promised not to do it again.

But now that I’m calm, the real fear is creeping in.

Why my natural hair? Why not my wig? My wig has been with me through trotro heat, office AC, and church praises. It carries enough of my scent to apply for a passport. So why does he ignore that one and go straight for the hair God planted on my scalp?

What exactly is this behavior? Is it love? Is it obsession? Or is it the preface to something I don’t want to read? Part of me is touched. Another part of me is ready to run to my pastor. Because in Ghana today, anything at all can happen. Today it’s hair-sniffing. Tomorrow it’s what?

Is this normal boyfriend behavior… or should I start wearing a helmet before what’s coming from the skies hits my head? I need answers.

—Abigail

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