The story so far:
Hair to the Nines by nashvillebecker
I used to be another plucker. (Careful reading that out loud.) When a stray white protruded high enough that I could pinch it between my thumb and forefinger without grabbing several surrounding strands, I would hastily yank the prematurely aged follicle. This probably lasted for three months or so, back when I was still a teenager, and before the Scalp Patrol was infiltrated with a full-out attack. I wasn't quite Leland from Twin Peaks, but I do recall waking one morning to discover plucking wasn't going to be easy anymore. Was it the old mother's tale that pulling one hair will cause two to sprout in its place? Was it my self-confidence permitting me peace about my early signs of maturity? Was it some obscure, reverse stance against racism? Whatever it was, my head now lives in happy harmony, each strand learning to live with the similarities and differences of its peers. Somewhere, someone is cueing "Put a Little Love in Your Heart."
'Hair to the Nines' statistics: (click to read)