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easynaturalhairstyle · 4 years

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Dealing with thick, wavy and unruly hair for men

So many of us are obsessed with the thought of a thin reetch, it is easy to forget that baldness is not a man's only concern when it comes to his barnet: thick, wavy and usually unruly hair can do all the problems , also.

And with a Don King hair day, more than just your appearance can be affected. According to a Yale University study, men who aren't happy with their hair tend to be more confident, self-critical, and less sociable than their well-deserved colleagues. Even the thought of a bad hair day has been shown to dramatically affect self-esteem.

Before you literally pull your hair out, keep in mind that there is no such thing as "normal" when it comes to things on your head – just the hair that you have been treated by accident: hair that is unique to you. And what makes it unique depends on its structure.

Evaluate your hair type

Hair varies in thickness – from 50 microns (a unit of 1 millionth of a meter) for people with fine hair to over 100 microns. The thickness also depends on the number of individual hairs on your head.

How the hair behaves depends on the shape of the individual waves. Asian hair, for example, is often round, lying flat and straight; caucasian hair is slightly oval, which tends to make it fine with varying degrees of waviness; and Afro-Caribbean hair is flat and curved, which gives it its distinctly curly look.

In addition, hair density – how many individual shafts there are on the head – is influenced by its color, with blondes being the least haired and redheads the least.

"Half of the battle learns how to work with the hair you got," said Wendy Lewis, author of Hair Affair. "You may know best how your hair behaves, but making it look healthy, shiny, and manageable can take a little knowledge."

At this (shared) end, this guide is here to help. Whether your mop is wavy, curly, frizzy, thick or just refuses to lie flat, we have a battle plan to defeat any kind of bad hair day.

Dealing with: thick hair

In the same way that it is difficult to sympathize with a billionaire who complains about the price of maintaining his yacht, it is hard to feel pity for a man who complains that his hair is too thick. But if you're that man, a thick reetch can be a constant source of annoyance.

"For thick hair, the main issue is manageability and sheer volume of hair," said Jaymarie Winkler, general manager of the new Ruffians hair salon at Liberty department store in London.

How to style thick hair

In general, slightly shorter hairstyles work best here. "Think about Caesar fringes, buzz cuts, structured plants and short choppy quiffs," says Winkler.

If the hair is particularly thick, ask your hairdresser or stylist to take some of the weight off with special thinning scissors. "This can help if your hair is very thick, but avoid it if your hair is coarse as it becomes carbonated and more complex."

It is also worthwhile for the hair to dry naturally if possible, as blow drying can increase volume and make it look even thicker. If blow drying is important, stick to a cool setting.

What products to use for thick hair

Non-volumizing mousse, on the one hand. Thick hair benefits from styling products that provide hold without adding volume or stickiness, so Winkler suggests stowing on clay or pastes.

According to Paul Morgan, a hairdresser at Jacks of London, a good moisturizing shampoo is also important, as is a decent conditioner. “They will not dry out the hair and keep it in good condition, which is important because when the hair is dry, the cuticle stays [die äußerste Schicht des Haares] open and it will appear even thicker and straw-like. ”

Conditioners also help keep thick hair manageable and result in a sleek and less voluminous look. “Moroccan oil is great for thick hair because it moisturizes and can change texture and soften hair over time,” says Morgan.

Dealing with: wavy hair

Around 40 percent of Caucasian men have slightly wavy hair, and if you're one of them, you're in good company – David Gandy, Orlando Bloom, and Roger Federer are three well-known men who know how to drive the waves.

Like curly hair, the wavy stuff can appear voluminous and tends to react to the weather – whereby the wave is more pronounced in high air humidity or with drizzle in the air. Additional waves can also sprout in places you would rather not have done and become knotted and tangled if your hair is long.

How to style wavy hair

"Instead of a bad thing, wavy hair is in many ways the holy grail of hair types," says Winkler. “Pretty much all styles work, but everything that has been pushed back really shows off that wave. If your hair is thick and wavy, your hairdresser can take out part of the mass with a razor or thinning scissors without risking frizz. ”

Particularly good cuts for guys with wavy hair are the undercut (where the sides and back hold an ultra short with the hair worn long up), the public school side part (where the fringe falls forward) or loose and bridled (think Jon Snow or Harry Styles). Remember: the longer the hair, the more pronounced the wave. So if control is your goal, keep your hair under three inches or so in length.

To tame longer wavy hair that tends to be somewhat unruly, Morgan suggests tying it loose overnight. "In the morning it will have a natural, messy, wavy look – very easy to care for and effortlessly cool."

Which products to use on wavy hair

"I recommend using sea salt or a volume spray to give some oomph before styling with a shiny pomade or styling paste," says Winkler.

You can maximize (and maintain) your waves with hair products designed to define and improve curls and waves, while reducing the crazy scientist look with an anti-frizz serum.

If you really want to wave goodbye, you can always temporarily remove them with the help of a pair of ceramic flat irons. If your cut is particularly short, choose a model with smaller plates, as they offer greater precision – that's the difference between smoldering optics and second-degree burns.

Dealing with: curly hair

"Curly hair is curly because the follicle from which it grows under the scalp is not straight," says celebrity hairdresser and trichologist Guy Parsons. Typically, curly hair is coarser in texture, and the coarser the hair, the less water it holds and therefore it is the dryer.

"It also absorbs light instead of reflecting it, so it doesn't tend to look" shiny "like straighter hair would," says Parsons. "The other downside is that it can become frizzy in wet weather, so it's important to use products that create a protective shield around it."

How to style curly hair

Many people find curly hair care overwhelming and neglect it to the point of the 1980s comedy Scouser ("It's certainly not the easiest hair type to manage," Parsons admits).

You have three options: fight it by cropping it (that's how Justin Timberlake attacks his infamous curly mop above), remove the curls with a relaxing treatment, or – and this is by far the easiest and most authentic option – you can simply make the most of what nature has given you. After all, it's not like there aren't many poster boys for curly hair: think James Franco, Adrian Grenier and Carlos Valderrama. Okay, so maybe not Valderrama, but you have the idea.

"To groom and define curly hair, ask your hairdresser for a flat, layered cut to create a full, curly finish," advises Morgan. "You don't want too much thinning or texturing to take place." A curly undercut (short on the back and on the sides, long and curly at the top) always looks good, as does a curly quiff and hair that has grown to the length of the jaws a la Aiden Turner in Poldark.

Whichever style you choose, make sure you cut or shape it when you're dry. Curly hair is more relaxed when it is wet, jump back a little when it is dry so it is cut this way, guaranteeing the style and length you want.

What products to use on curly hair

"Product selection is critical to curly hair," says Morgan, who recommends a moisturizing shampoo to prevent hair from becoming dry and frizzy, alongside a styling product like Moroccan Oil Molding Cream. "It can be applied to wet hair and, because it's incredibly moisturizing, is perfect for curly hair," he says. "It will help define the curls and give them good hold."

If you are in a knot, take the right tool too. The hair can be tangled with a brush specially designed for thick and curly hair. These have flexible teeth that gently detangle and smooth the cuticles of the hair while minimizing damage. Likewise, drying hair with a hair dryer with a diffuser will help protect the hair and define curls without making them frizzy.

"For a more relaxed, loose look, simply dry the hair with a towel and use a standard hair dryer nozzle or funnel to straighten the hair for a more relaxed curl," says Morgan. "Or if you want to get rid of them, flat irons could give you a new look for the day."

Keep in mind that using heat on curls – along with alcohol-based sprays and mousses – can make dry hair even drier. So don't forget to reverse the effects with a moisturized, non-volumizing shampoo and occasionally deep conditioner.

Dealing with: unruly hair

Like young children, hair can be obedient and well-behaved, or unruly and defiant. Since your hair is unique, it is likely that it will have its own kinks and quirks. Most of them will hug you and have learned to live, but a couple – cowlicks and double crowns – can be particularly problematic.

Crowns are (mostly clockwise) hair swirls that form at a central point on the back of the head directly from the top of your head – but some people have two of them that create a "double crown". These can be difficult for hairdressers because they have to deal with two centers of growth to style.

Cowlicks, meanwhile, are small sections of hair that go against the general direction of hair on the head to create gravity-defying tufts that hold and defy most attempts to tame them with products like waxes and pomades.

Knew how:

"If you have a distinctive double crown, you have to commit to either a long, very choppy, or short style," says Winkler. "Longer the crown will complain, make it less noticeable, and short and choppy will hide it." Everything in between and you ask for trouble, with different hair pieces noticeably growing apart.

The easiest way to deal with a stubborn cowlick is to make a short, spiky, or structured style that works with it and not against it, disguising the hyperactive hair.

What products should be used on unruly hair?

There is no magic potion that can help here. However, some styling techniques can help make things easier.

For example, blow drying can temporarily change the direction of hair growth if cowlicks are an issue, while hair growth can help longer by weighing it.

Interestingly, washing the hair is less often a good hack, since the natural oils weigh the individual strands at the root.

Dealing with thick, wavy and unruly hair for men

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[HR] The Vegetarian

Kirk was sitting on the bed when I arrived to his cell, right leg crooked over the left and fingers interlaced in his lap. He didn’t seem imposing, and in fact did not even acknowledge me at first, just sat there staring at whatever point on the wall he’d laid his eyes upon. I wasn’t sure what to make of him. Bony face, empty and unadorned as the room itself. Pronounced clavicles. Tufts of brown hair poked out from the neck of a white tank top, which in turn had been tucked into a pair of orange trousers. Both were too large. An untouched pork roast was laid out on a platter next to him, the slab of meat girthier than his leg.

“We don’t normally do this, you know,” I said.

He turned and looked up at me, moving only his head to do so. Bushy eyebrows, flat nose, drooping earlobes, pointed chin. The corners of his lips curled up just enough to tip the scales and qualify as a smile. For a while he continued sitting there, looking more through me than at me, but then he blinked twice and met my eyes.

“I know.”

I took a step back in spite of myself, feeling like I’d opened the door to a naked stranger. Instead of covering up, though, he acknowledged me and grinned, as if saying don’t worry, this is the locker room, everybody is changing clothes here. He never moved an inch, but the tightness in my gut insisted that we were much too close. I was about to retreat another step when he reached out to pat the mattress beside him. The ring finger on his left hand was missing.

“Take a seat.”

I hesitated for a moment and then edged forward, sitting as far away from Kirk as I could. There were two feet or so between myself and the pork roast. Then him. A few feet further was the far wall of the cell. Its cement bricks were painted a peculiar green, like melted mint ice cream.

“Oh, Peter,” he said, a twinge of disappointment colouring his voice. “I don’t bite.”

I scooched closer, perhaps six inches; just enough to create a space for my left hand. The tips of Kirk’s lips dropped back down and his eyes glazed over again. It happened so quickly, as if an electric current was running through his veins and my little rejection had caused an important switch inside of him to fall out of place. Weight disappeared from the air, I was able to suck in a quick breath and, sighing, realized that the hand I’d planted next to me had been shaking. My eyes wandered to the far wall and settled upon a worn steel sink.

“I heard that you’d requested to eat with me,” I said.

The mention of food seemed to flip whatever switch I’d knocked loose. Kirk leaned over towards his pillow and then turned back to face me, a plate and some silverware in each hand. He placed one set on his side of the pork roast and the other on mine. I couldn’t help but notice the scars on his bicep when he extended his arm to do so. Jagged purple things that stood a half-centimeter tall, as if whatever caused them hadn’t quite been able to take his life and settled for a swathe of skin instead. Just then Kirk looked up, but as his smile grew, he must have misinterpreted the reason for my staring.

“I don’t suppose you like pork, do you?”

“I don’t eat pork,” the words fell out of my mouth, practically a reflex at this point.

“Really?” his eyebrows shot up. “You Muslim?”

“Huh? No. I mean, it’s not just pork. I don’t eat meat at all,” I said, more comfortable now that his focus had shifted off of me. “Back in high school I—”

Kirk interrupted me. “I used to do construction work. Carpentry, to be more specific. Anyhow, sometimes we got lunch at this barbecue joint. But one of the guys was a Muslim—Abdulrahman, I think—and he never came. So I asked him why. He said that pork was considered haram ‘cause it tastes like human flesh.”

“Uhh.. well, in my case, back in high school I dated this girl for a couple years. One day we saw a PETA advertisement on TV; cows getting tazed in a slaughterhouse. She got upset and started bawling—the cows were panicking and wailing, it was really terrible—and the next thing I knew, we were vegetarians. We broke up a few months afterwards, but fifteen years later and here I am, still a vegetarian.”

Kirk let out a whistle.

“It’s not really something I think about anymore, though,” I added. “After you haven’t eaten meat for a while, eventually it stops looking like food to you. Plus, I was already a vegetarian when I began cooking, so I never learned any recipes that needed meat. It’s just a habit, I guess.”

At the word habit, Kirk turned to look at me again. Differently, this time. I’m not sure how to describe the way he looked at me, exactly. Hesitantly, with scrutiny; the face a child makes when they’re rolling a new word around in their mouth and aren’t sure what to make of it. He lifted a hand and ran his fingers through the stubble along his jaw, back and forth from the beginning of his cheekbones to the bottom of his chin. Interested, to say the least, and searching.

“In that case,” he said, “do you want a slice?”

“Erm, no. I’m fine, thank you. ”

“Oh,” he frowned, then put a few slices of pork roast on his own plate. He stabbed one with his fork and then held it up in front of his eyes, squinting as if he were inspecting a dollar bill for signs of forgery. “Kind of boring for a last meal, huh. I heard that people order some pretty crazy stuff, but I just couldn’t think of anything I really wanted to eat,” he cocked his head a little to one side. “When I was a kid I heard about this restaurant in New York that sold gold-leaf plated ice cream sundaes. Always thought I wanted to try that just once before I died. Even just a spoonful. But when it came down to it, I asked for a pork roast. That’s the funny thing about habit, I guess.”

I didn’t respond, and he didn’t press me to. After a while he placed the entire slice of pork into his mouth—a whole slice, and a rather thick one at that—and chewed in silence. Though I’d have cut it into smaller pieces, myself, it was a wholly normal manner of eating. Lips sealed, but struggling to remain so. Cheeks puffed out. His jaw went down, his jaw came back up; slow, rhythmical, intentional. Eventually he lifted his chin a bit and swallowed. A lump formed in his throat and seemed to be stuck there for a second, then disappeared.

“Abdulrahman was wrong, by the way,” he said, bringing a fist to his mouth to suppress a burp, then turned to face me. He looked into my eyes right away this time. “About the pork, I mean.”

There wasn’t vitriol or remorse in Kirk’s words, but there was lightning. People often say they feel a chill race along their spine, or that their hairs stand on edge, but this was nothing like that. A wave of electricity dashed through my body as soon as the word pork made contact with my ears; my forearms clenched, my stomach lurched and my back straightened. All in the span of a tenth of a second. Then, finding nowhere to go, it held me transfixed. Pressure built in my throat and I wanted to breathe so badly, like a leading tone itchs to resolve to its tonic, but I found myself unable to contract my diaphragm. So I sat there, tensed and trembling, until I realized that Kirk wasn’t looking at me anymore. His gaze had returned to the wall—or to the sink, rather, judging by the tilt of his head—and he fell quiet. But the way his fingers slowly flexed and unflexed, clutching his pants so hard the fabric ruffled and then falling lifeless, I could tell that he wanted to say something. Unfortunately, the sink’s basin seemed much too shallow to find the words he was looking for.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he said, finally. “It... happened to me, really. Was just minding my job, you know? You’ve got to, in construction. My dad used to point at the saw after he’d cut a board in half. You see how slick it cut through this here two-by-four? Yeah? He’d say. Like a goddamn knife through butter. And it’ll do the same thing to your finger. Ya hear? We respect our tools, but all it takes is a second. One day a few guys had just finished loading a skip hoist and somebody told a joke. Apparently one of the others—his name was Carlos—thought it was real funny and he cracked up. Really cracked up, could hardly stand straight. Without thinking he laid a hand on the skip hoist to steady himself and so happened to grab the wire rope. It was exposed, somehow. Anyway, they’d been loading it with debris, yeah? Just then the batch they’d sent off discharged, the wire jumped and it ripped three of his fingers straight off. He’s lucky he didn’t lose his whole hand. I was standing twenty feet away, smoking a cigarette on break, and one of the fingers made it all the way to me.” Kirk sighed, long and deep.

“Just plopped there in front of me, fell right out of the sky. I was stunned for a second, but by the time I came to, I had that finger in the ziplock bag with my chips. At first I was worried somebody might see me, but they were preoccupied with Carlos. Understandably. So I wrapped the bag in a few napkins and stuck it under the ice pack in my lunch box, then ran off to help. We got him to the hospital real quick and then the foreman told us to take the rest of the day off. Everybody was shaken, to say the least.” he said. I was scrambling to put pieces together, but thankfully, Kirk didn’t seem too interested in hearing what I had to say. He just kept talking.

“I used that extra couple hours to go to the store and get stuff for a simple marinade. A bit of olive oil and soy sauce. Dijon mustard, ground black pepper and a clove of garlic. Let it sit overnight, then I roasted it with an omelette for breakfast in the morning. There’s not much meat on a finger, unfortunately.” Kirk suddenly glanced up, meeting my wide eyes for a second before looking away. His face was a mix of guilt and embarrassment, as if he was confronting someone who had earlier walked in on him masturbating. “It was nice. A bit chewy, but not in a bad way. I’m not much of a chef, but I remember thinking that it’d have gone better with something more acidic. Maybe a pineapple marinade. Anyhow, nothing like pork. Noth—” He looked up again, stopping mid-sentence upon meeting my eyes. Then he just sat there with his mouth open for a few seconds.

“And that was that for awhile. It was just… a really intense curiosity, and it was harmless, and it was done. The fingers were too fucked up to be reattached, anyway. Now I knew, you know, so that was that. It wasn’t bad, but not so special. Just a piece of meat. Not worth the trouble. That project we were working on ended and I went the next couple years without thinking about it again,” he nodded and bit his lower lip. “Then I took a project upstate. The commute was too far, so after the first day on the job I went to book a room at a nearby motel. Am I scaring you, Peter?”

I stuttered for a few seconds without saying much. His gaze hung much more heavily over me than his words did, so I looked away, to escape his eyes. “It’s unsettling, yes.” I said.

“That it is,” he said. “Anyway, it’s 9:30 at night or so and I pulled into this little motel lot. The worksite was already out of the way as it was, and the motel was in the opposite direction of the city. Real pretty though, at the foot of a mountain trail. I imagine it was for hikers, but this was mid-march and it was still too cold for that. There was nobody in the administrator’s office and, just as I was resigning to a night in the truck, I heard the scream. Not a scream like your kid had done something stupid or something on TV made you jump, either. You don’t know what desperate means till you hear someone scream like that. So I went looking. It didn’t take long, given that there was only light coming from one room and the door was cracked.”

“I stepped into the room to see two people struggling in bed. A woman old enough to be wrinkled but still with a head full of brown hair, her nightshirt half ripped off, and standing on the bed over her a large man. He had on a dirty red t-shirt, a bare ass and a pair of denim shorts around one of his ankles. When I walked in they both stopped and stared at me for a minute, all three of us frozen in place. The man moved first. ‘Get out,’ he said, but I was so shocked I couldn’t move. Then he turned towards the doorway, took a step forward and pointed a finger at me. You. He took another step forward, and when I met his eyes, I understood a bit of what I heard in that woman’s scream. They were hard steps, his penis bouncing from side to side with each one. For some reason my response was to bunch up my shoulders, hands at my side, like I was standing at attention. I couldn’t move from that spot, and maybe he saw my terror, that man started laughing as he walked towards me. Then the tips of my fingers felt the hammer, still hanging off the loop of my jeans.”

“A few steps later he reached out towards me. I don’t know if he meant to push me, or to grab me or to hit me. But when he reached out, suddenly all that desperation exploded into action. I swung out, the hammer connected with the side of his head and he dropped. Like a stone. It was over in a second, much quicker than I actually processed what happened. I stood there staring at him, motionless and bleeding on the floor, then looked up at the woman. She had pushed herself up tight against the bed frame and pulled the blankets up, scrunching them to cover her chest. We met eyes and she began whimpering—Please, don’t hurt me. Over and over again like some mantra. Eventually she lost it and started sobbing and convulsing, shaking the blankets off. Her breasts were pockmarked with cancer spots and bruises and wrinkles, but in that moment, she looked like a vulnerable little girl. Fear does that to people,” he said.

“Anyhow, I just stood there for a few minutes; it was all too surreal. Eventually it dawned on me that I’d just killed someone. The adrenaline and dizziness disappeared, like the image of an old television shrinks to a single point before blinking out into darkness, and I panicked. I hadn’t planned this. I was just doing my job. In that moment my life fell apart to the background music of this woman’s crying. There was no more noise than that, it was practically silent, and it all happened in a mundane hotel room you wouldn’t look twice at, but there was no going back from that day. That stood out to me real clear, like it was a line of text highlighted in a book. Everything had changed now. I didn’t know what to do so I dragged the man’s body outside, put him in my truck bed’s tool box and drove home. It was less of a choice and more of a resignation.”

“I ate him, of course. Started with his penis; deep fried, strewn with parsley. It was chewy, not in a particularly pleasant way, but the testicles were nice. Hard on the outside, crispy, but soft and sticky on the inside. His thighs were memorable, too—salt, pepper, a bit of nutmeg. Some sauteed brussel sprouts on the side. Eventually I finished eating him, but curiosity had only begun eating away at me. The next few years are a blur; I don’t remember how many people I killed. Ten? Fifteen? Maybe more. When I killed the man I was so worried that I’d see my face on the news; every time I heard sirens outside I tensed up, assuming they were for me. That they were coming, and the world knew what I’d done; but the world didn’t know and the police never came. I guess that woman at the motel didn’t paint a picture of me, and even if she did, I’d never ran into issues with the law before. They had no reason to look for me. I was just a normal guy out doing my job. The serial killers you see on TV, you know, I think they wanted the notoriety, like it was some sort of voyeurism. But I tried to stay out of the spotlight, and I guess it helps that I didn’t have a type. I’d get a fat old homeless guy here, a little orphan there. Lots of different ethnicities and sizes and ages. One day I picked up this methed-out prostitute. Straight up told her that I was going to kill her and eat her. That one sticks with me, out of all of them, you know. She didn’t respond, didn’t start frantically yanking on the door handle. Didn’t fight me or panic. Just sighed, closed her eyes and reclined the passenger seat a bit. It was hardly the worst thing the world had thrown her way; I suppose she’d been waiting to die for a long time already. I didn’t enjoy her.”

“I didn’t enjoy much after that, in fact. It was like the printer ran out of ink and started putting out stills that were nothing more than several shades of gray. The passion was gone, the creativity dead. Everybody looked about as appetizing as your dad’s meatloaf—” Kirk glanced at me. “No offence, Peter. I’m sure you’re great. Anyway, I stopped eating. Not just people, either. Everything. The bread in my pantry got moldy, the milk in my fridge went bad, and I started going, too. I lost a lot of weight.” Kirk’s hands reached up, seemingly inadvertently, and traced his clavicle. It stood so far out that I imagined he could wrap his fingers around the bone if he pushed a bit. “It happened real gradually. I’d always wake up early on Sunday mornings to make breakfast. Toss some bacon into the skillet, then when that’s done you use the bacon grease to make fried potatoes. You might as well have a cigarette or two because that takes awhile, fifteen or twenty minutes maybe, and otherwise you’re just standing there stirring. But they’ll be real good and crispy. Try it sometime. After that you can start the toast, then you use the same pan to scramble eggs. Once they set, toss in a bit of cheese, some salt and pepper. I liked to add a bit of paprika, myself. Anyhow, it’s simple, but it’s good.” Kirk wet his lips.

“Or, well, it was good. This prostitute, yeah? I picked her up on a Tuesday evening and we got back to my place at nine in the evening or so. Normally I’d talk to people, get to them a bit, but this woman just sat in the chair and ignored me the entire trip. When we got back I walked over to open her door, and she adjusted her skirt a bit then got out. I walked a bit behind her because I expected her to run, but she didn’t. Just walked to the house and let herself in. So I led her to the bathroom and told her to wait there; I went to the bedroom and took off my clothes, so as not to get blood on them. I took my time, and I thought she’d make an escape while I was gone. Show her colors. The door wasn’t locked, after all. But when I came back she was still there, sitting on the toilet. Didn’t even acknowledge me at first. Eventually she looked over real slowly, like she was bored. And her eyes, they—” Kirk stopped mid-sentence and scrunched up his face. “You’ ever kill anybody before, Peter?”

The question took me aback. “No,” I said. My voice was much shriller than I had expected, almost a whisper. “Never,” I glanced at my watch.

Peter nodded. “Well,” he said, “people look at you in a certain way, just before it happens. It’s an intimate thing. At first they’re shocked, and that quickly turns to fear. The adrenaline kicks in and they struggle for a bit, but before long that wears off and they accept that the ball is in your court. From there, some people start crying. Some people will beg with you, some people scream. Some people just stare at you, like a challenge. Eventually they give up. All of them. From that point on, they look at you in this special way. Like a child looks at their mother, or a pet waits for food. Expectantly, vulnerable, submissive. They’re totally dependent on you know, and they know it, and they know you know it. It’s a real intense thing, real personal; they might never have looked at anybody like that before. Hopeful and hopeless at the same time. It’s like looking right into their soul. You learn a lot about them during those few minutes. And then you kill them.”

“But this lady, she didn’t do anything like that. Just sat there, as if she was bored, like I was wasting her time. I stood there looking at her for a long time, I don’t know how long. I wasn’t sure what to do with her. You can’t dance if your partner doesn’t do their part, you know? Eventually she got up, walked over and took the knife. At this point I’d have let her wave it at me, I just wanted to see something in her. Instead she ran it through her own stomach. Deep. Then she walked over to the bathtub, laid down and died. I was still standing there, and I stood there for a long time, unsure what to make of things. But I never figured out what to do, so instead I left the bathroom and went to bed,” Kirk raised his eyebrows and shook his head slowly from side to side.

“I felt off that entire week. Sunday came, I made breakfast but found I couldn’t eat the bacon. The eggs were fine, and the potatoes, but I had no appetite for the bacon. I ate her liver, instead, but it was off, too. Next went steak and fried chicken, and within a few days, I couldn’t make myself eat any sort of meat. Somehow, after eating so many people, normal meat had just become a bit boring. That’s what I told myself, at least. Like somebody who starts drinking sparkling water instead of soda. It’s just not quite the same. Hard to get excited about. So I became, as you call it, a vegetarian,” Kirk flashed me a smile, but his lips were the only part of his face that moved. It disappeared just as quickly as it came, then he reached up and scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know what happened, really. At first it was just meat, but then other foods followed, too. Within a couple weeks I couldn’t stomach the scrambled eggs or fried potatoes, either. By the time a month had passed I’d completely stopped eating. She was still up there in the bathtub and it was starting to stink. There was a half bath on the first floor, but I hadn’t showered since.”

“Two months in I woke up to hunger pangs. Terrible ones. Oh god, the hunger; it felt like my stomach was being ripped apart. I needed to eat. Something, anything, now. But I hadn’t left the house since that night. There was nothing left. So I—well you know, right?” Kirk glanced at me. “I saw you looking at my arms. I began cutting myself, taking chunks of meat from here and there. Mostly my thighs. Not such big ones; they bled for a bit and then closed up just fine. Unfortunately, it turns out I’m not all that delicious. A few days later I did this,” he held his hand up. “Just went into the kitchen, grabbed a knife and cut it off. There wasn’t as much blood as I expected, but it didn’t stop. Once it started it just kept going, and going, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. So I went to the hospital. The entire world stopped to look at me when I walked into the emergency room, but they hurried me to a room and patched me up just the same. Then they asked what happened, so I told them, and they sent me to inpatient care. Later that day the police found the girl. The therapists there asked me why I did that, so I told them—how this all started with Carlos’ finger, had come full circle and now it was time for me. Or something like that. I was in the hospital for a couple weeks, then was sent to prison to wait until my court case. That whole process took several months, but time wasn’t so important to me during those days. The next thing I knew my sentencing was up around the corner.”

“It hit me when I was getting dressed that morning. I didn’t dress up too much, but I figured that a guy should at least wear a tie to his own sentencing. So I put on a pair of navy blue slacks and a white Oxford; found an old belt, too, then set about doing my tie. Choosing the tie didn’t present much of a dilemma, as I only had one of them—mottled yellow, knitted—but what to do with it was more difficult. Eventually I decided on the Merovingian. It’s quite a difficult knot, so I expected to fail a few times. I fucked it up, of course, and then again. And again. Eight times. It didn’t bother me until I looked in the mirror and, seemingly for the first time, noticed my missing finger. Surely I would have succeeded if I had but one more finger; I threw the tie down and stomped. The Merovingian laughed at me.”

Kirk sighed.

“Not a lot gets by me, you know. But somehow, somewhere along the line, I lost my self. I’d have noticed if it were my dress socks or the change jar. If the stop sign down the street disappeared one day. But my self, it slipped away so quietly, and I was none the wiser. Maybe it was chased off by lust, or maybe my… hunger… consumed it, too. Maybe it went bit by bit, I don’t know. But for whatever reason it struck me that morning when I was trying to put on my damn tie. I was shocked to see that I was missing a finger, and suddenly I began coming back to myself. The fuzziness disappeared and I snapped back into it, only to find that I was missing much more than a finger. I didn’t have a self to come back to anymore. The Merovingian laughed at me.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” it said. “It’s inevitable. Even if you stop, even if you know that you’re done, you swear it won’t happen no more, that doesn’t mean it’s gone. Nothing can replace it, that taste. And you know it. Try to move on. Just try. It’s hungry, and it’s powerful, and it’s patient. And once it gets ahold of you, it’ll eat away at you until nothing is left.”

Just then two men appeared in the doorway and announced that time was up. Kirk was taken by a guard, and on his way out, without looking back at me, he announced:

“A nail is driven out by another nail, Peter. The Merovingian is coming for you, too. ”

And then he disappeared around the corner.

The warden furrowed his eyebrows and looked at me. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’ve never talked to the man in my life.”

The warden disappeared and Peter began to cry.

Shortly after, he took a slice of pork.

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