So we trained the light of my bedside lamp onto my foot and I lay back while Scott poked and prodded with tweezers and a needle. After some peeps and cringing out of me, he managed to extract a small sliver of something, but more was in there.
More poking and prodding.
Finally, he got it. Held it up. Studied it. And it looked suspiciously like...
A hair.
A small brown hair, maybe a quarter of an inch long, with a little white follicle on the end and everything; like an eyebrow hair that got lost on its way to my face.
A hair.
In my toe.
On the bottom of my toe.
The end.
3 comments:
that's messed up. you've given me eybrow-hair-phobia now.
That is really gross, lady! But I am very glad to hear you and Scott are doing well. Happy birthday!
I remember when i was very young, and getting my hair cut at my mother's salon - the hair dresser warned me (I was wearing flip-flops) that the hair on the floor could stick you like a splinter. I didn't really believe her. until now.
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