I was riding in a taxi and after the usual small talk -- Where are you going? Where do you live? What's your work? What's your name? -- the driver pulled into a gas station. Then he leaned over and asked me if he could have a piece of my hair for medicine. I'd heard this idea before: White people's hair is magic. I figured it couldn't hurt, so I gave him the go-ahead.
He took a pinch from the back and yanked. I thought he wanted a strand not a lock. That hurt! I tried to maintain a stoic look and refrained from rubbing my new and painful little bald spot.
He started rolling the hair into a ball between his fingers, then got a matchstick and stuffed the hairball into the small vile he was wearing around his neck.
My hair, magic, right.