Gabriel Gudding
			HAIR   I balance the big convict on my head and walk out of the prison with the inmate beneath my bangs. My head is rather large. We approach the guards with whom I chat amiably. They don’t suspect there is a convict on my head. I walk through the gates to the parking lot where I put the prisoner down and say don’t run, it might look suspicious. The inmate and I stand in the parking lot. He is frightened, confused and has big hair. They are called dreads. They are fierce and impressive dreadlocks. He stands there before me. We shake hands. He smiles and says to me,  “You can come down now.” I say, “What?” And out of his dreadlocks crawl three men one who is very fat, they all seem so happy and nervous, I am now incredibly nervous, I have just hidden four men in my hair. I have aided the escape of four large felons, now I am a medium sized felon. We are five felons standing in the parking lot outside Auburn Prison, I say, “Look, what are you doing here! we’re in big trouble, get in my car!” We drive to Ithaca. I take them to the house of Pete Wetherbee, a Dante professor and fellow teacher at the prison. As he answers the door he says, “Hi! Come in, Come in. Gosh, this is great to see you! Golly, it’s very terr-ific to see you! What day is it?” We make small talk. Chat. We have some tea. As we are sipping our tea, Pete uncrosses his legs and shouts: “JESUS! What the SHIT are you doing here! You’re supposed to be in prison!” “We know,” the men say in unison. “Gabe put us in his hair. We’re out now.” There is pounding at the door. Pete’s wife, Judy, runs in, says from the kitchen the house looks surrounded. Pete blurts, “Look, get in my hair!” “But you’re balding!” we shout. “OK, get in Judy’s hair.” The inmates climb onto the head of his wife. She staggers around, grips the sofa back. The police enter, we say hi, Pete’s wife wobbles. The police notice, look at each other. Pete says, “Forgive my wife, she’s drunk.” Judy looks annoyed. She excuses herself, wobbles toward the bed- room, says she’s gotta lay down. The police feign respect and nod in a patronizing fashion. Their heads are so small, I think. “Look,” says Pete, “What do you want?” A policeman lies, “We were concerned about you and Gabe. Four convicts escaped this afternoon.” “Jeepers,” says Pete, “Well, they’re not hair, I mean here.” “If you see anything, just call 911.” We nod, “Thank you, officers.” They leave. We run to the bedroom. Pete’s wife meets us at the door. She’s bald. She’s enraged. Pete says, “Where’s your wig!” She slaps him, says: “There! on the bed.” On the bed is a handbag. “It’s in the handbag?” I yell. Yes in the handbag, she says. I pick up the handbag. I hear muffled shouts from in the handbag. I begin weeping. I apologize to them both. I take the handbag home. I am still weeping. I put the handbag in a backpack. I put the backpack in a suitcase. I put the suitcase in a trunk. The trunk is heavy. I put the trunk in my hair. I walk out into the street. I hear a wind and feeble knocking from inside my hair. But I just keep walking. I walk, weeping. I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do with the men in my graying auburn hair.