Laying Across Qwerty

was a hair, and most definitely
not mine. For starters,
my mop had just yesterday
been doused in red,
the showering-out
a little like a scene
from "Psycho or "Carrie,
with sneezing, not screaming,
and this rogue was browner
than a cooking-oil-covered
Benidorm tourist. Add this
to your evidence: the length
far outshot my own, curling
where mine lay flat
like a dog, obedient
to the point of rigormortis.
I meditated for a second
on the DNA snippet. Cloning
was too obvious, but, should I
need to plant a murder or baby
on some unwitting dupe,
I had the key. Of course,
a literature degree is not conducive
to such extensive scientific skullduggery,
but enthusiasm goes far, I believe.

I considered folding the strand
there and then,
and sneaking it pocketwards, staring
primally at the IT technician
fiddling with a nearby USB, until
he looked away. I could have had it away
in a second, a life of riches
and airtight alibis ahead of me.
Hundreds of sprees blamed
on the mysterious chocolate-maned typist
who'd sat here moments before.

I stretched out a digit
to snag the trophy, when
a voice trickled softly
over my shoulder.

"My hair, I believe.

I made like a tree.