In the fourth month, it is becoming harder to separate reverie and dreams. Hair strands dance behind my closed eyelids. Sweet curls meet in an endless round dance, curl and wrap around each other, only to separate again with a twist – a hairy flurry, accompanied by the sound of a minuet played on a cembalo. Even the pattern on the shower curtain, a stylized fingerprint, seems to be formed by strands of hair. Perhaps my retina has turned into a hairnet and is now constantly projecting patterns onto the visual surface behind my closed eyelids – as if to buy a new wallpaper to view the world.

There is only one of all these hairy dreams at night, that I remember clearly. I had salvaged black hair from the hairdressers’ garbage bags – a voluminous tangle with the feel of wire wool. Possibly one might even be able to scrub the sink or frying pan with a handful of this confused swirl. I suspect that the person who dropped this hair is female, wearing a too thick black eyeliner under her eyes, when showing up at the supermarket checkout with the war paint of a tricky life. The wearer herself might even say a ‘fucked up life’. Did her thoughts flicker as insane as her hair disobeyed? What had made her get rid of it? What made her let herself be sheared? What was left on her head?

While this black hairball left me fascinated and astonished in my dream, I had a hard time, putting up with those two handful of five centimeters long, bordeaux colored strands in my hands. For me, it is hard to believe that bordeaux colored hair crowns like an ornament the heads of a happy life. Aren’t there – more often than not – five-year-old children, too thin, rachitic, anemic pale and blond, next to these women with bordeaux colored hair. The women have water under their skin and a Pall Mall Red Jumbo cigarette pack in their hands.
An adequate name for those ash-colored, soft hair flakes, which look like dry food for the beloved pet, came to me in that very same dream. What looks like fluff touches me, probably because I cannot imagine how anyone could ever have hair like this. Is it natural or colored? Does its bearer suffer lack of daylight? Referring to the breeds Rosette, Curly and Angora, I call it guinea pig hair.
However, even these black, red and ash-colored banks of hair awaken the memory of Snow White in the coffin – white as snow, red as blood and black as ebony – when all of a sudden this hair grows to my head in my dream. The black wire wool on the left of my head, bordeaux colored hair like an Iroquois above my crown and on the right a nest of guinea pig hair.
Unable to scream in my dream, I woke up only to crawl to the mirror as quickly as possible. While crawling, I went over the list of 120 Münsterland hairdressers in my mind to filter out the person I trusted the most and who might make up for the disaster on my head. Already concerned with how to change black to orange, I looked into the mirror and recognized myself.

Time leaps catapult me through the weeks, I walk through novella-like episodes and rural soap operas. Probably, I recover at night from the swirl of images when supposedly sleeping dreamless. I walk through novella-like episodes and rural soap operas. Probably, I recover at night from the swirl of images when supposedly sleeping dreamless.
Until recently, when my fingernails bent to very narrow and at least 45cm long shovels in yet another dream. After a second test run in terms of hairball pressing, which didn’t go quite according to my expectation, my body created the missing machine part out of itself: my hands would take over the role of the gripper, lift the spread hair and shovel it into the machine’s gullet … Somehow, that transformation of myself into a clone of shock-headed Peter and Edward Scissorhands was nothing to worry about. I didn’t ask myself any unnecessary questions like, “How do I get dressed?” At most, I was surprised that fingernails, which up to now had seemed rather annoying to me when reaching a length of 3 mm, could be such useful tools.

And they didn’t even bother me in my sleep.