A man collects the hair of his victims. 320 words
I hate women. All of them, but I love their hair. The kind I love best is long, straight, and black. When a woman lets down her hair and rolls her head, I can’t help but take in a deep breath as her hair swishes the air. Aaahh, the aroma...
I have a collection.You must know what kind of collection it is. The Nazis had huge piles of hair at their camps that dwarfed mine. Yet, they didn’t love hair like I do. I bury my face in its soft warm nest, close my eyes, and breathe deep and slow. SS guards didn’t do that. Well, maybe a few did.
The one face down on my couch is very pretty. Her auburn hair is flowing over her left shoulder and cascading to the blue carpet. I see the rays of the setting sun absorbed by a waterfall.
Drugged and sleeping peacefully. She doesn’t struggle as I force her face into the cushion. Death has been easy and the shampoo is gentle.
I cut the hair as close to the scalp as I can and wrap a ribbon around the bottom. Half a dozen pony tails from one head is a good crop. My hands caress them with camellia seed oil and the hair glistens.
I used to kill just any woman for her hair, but now I’ve become a lot more choosy. And so, it’s a lot harder now to get what I want. Good quality hair is a sign of time spent caring for a healthy body and personal beauty. Such women aren’t easy prey.
Luckily, I don’t look threatening. I’m handsome. I know how to be charming without being phony. But, still I have to be slow and a lot more careful to win. That’s why disappointment stirred in my heart when the redhead agreed to come to my web on only our second date.
Twelve. My basement is getting crowded and the police are beginning to take notice of the disappearances since I began targeted higher class women. Time to move. I’ll miss the feeling of knowing what’s under my feet. Their tresses will help me endure.