The morning mind is a messy bouquet of hairy flowers. My mind is out
there like my hair is today. It's all whipped around on one side. The
stems are my hair and my head is the blossom. The stems are the stems,
the blossoms implanted in my head. Mind-blossoms — they grow backward,
from bud to stem. Bloody greymatter buds, a mind of collected flowers,
and look at all the stems.

Babies are bald. Then come the hairworms. They bury their snouts into the
skull and wave their flagella. Which grow longer and longer as they gorge
on brain cells. Hair is made of brain, made of old dumb ideas no longer
necessary — if we were to live to be 1000, and continued getting
haircuts, eventually our brains would be all used up.

There are always spinners inside spinning hair, sitting at whipping
little wheels, weaving hair and threading it out all the little holes,
like the forest of holes in a plastic baby doll's head. Many women
singing a merry song and treading the foot-treadle and spinning hair.