My first Rule to Live By is always peel your clump of dead hair from a recent hookup's shower drain before fleeing the scene. It's the polite thing to do. After drying off and dressing, I put the hair wad in my pocket. I throw it in the grass outside, where it will decompose and feed worms or become part of a bird's nest.

When it's rooted in my head, my hair still forms a network of knots. It is dry and brown and frayed like discarded twine. It stops a few inches above my wide-ish butt, which I usually cover with black denim. I hate it.

It seems rude to carpet someone's drain with my gross hair after having sex with them. I feel bad leaving, anyway. I never stay the night (Rule two) and wouldn't want to remind anyone of their recent regrets upon their discovery of my forgotten hairball.

***

I mostly find hook-ups on the Internet. It's easy: set preferences (dogs or cats? Smokers or non-smokers? Social drinkers or teetotalers?), pick the photo of yourself you hate the least, and let the messages arrive (stock openers: "hey beautiful/gorgeous/insert-empty-adjective-here," "nice pic," or some cheesy contrived pickup line conjured by Google). I do online marketing work from my apartment in Lower Manhattan, so it's easy for me to switch between my many profiles and check messages throughout the day. While it's great fun, it can be murky territory. I've had online dates show me up, slip me something, stalk me for a couple weeks. I've learned to always meet in public (Rule three) and to go back to their place (Rule four) so they won't know my home address. Hence all the hairballs I've had to pick up. I have a date at least every other night, usually.

I do the same thing for every meetup. We go to a movie matinee, when the tickets are only three bucks. We pay for ourselves. We watch whatever they want. We go back to wherever they live and have sex however they ask for it. I shower and go home, where I sleep like I'm dead, without leaving a trace.

***

I try not to see anyone more than once (Rule five). I broke this Rule one time. For a month last winter, I spent many nights at a young professor's apartment (despite Rule two). They decorated with their own paintings, dark, yawning landscapes, canyons and hellish chasms that swallowed you if you stared too hard. I like to paint, too, but mine turn out more abstract, amorphous clouds of color with no commitment to shape. I've never shown my paintings to anyone.

The professor taught communication studies at a big-name University. I liked them because we could talk about language together. As a marketer, I find it fascinating how we use words to get what we want, how we code-switch and morph into whoever we need to sell ourselves as at the moment. The professor and I had great conversations. We met at the craft store and I started spending nights with them soon after. They complained about my hair shedding everywhere, but I liked how they grabbed it when we made love.
   
We broke up when I forgot a comb there overnight once. They said it felt too serious, what with my stuff at their apartment. I agreed. I haven't broken a Rule since.

***

I cut my own hair. It's easy. My mother taught me how. On my twelfth birthday, she separated my hair into layers and showed me how to trim it in a way that frames my chubby face and squarish chin. I've never paid for a haircut. My dad never paid child support and the court didn't care, so we tried to live as self-sufficiently as possible. It's a good habit I've carried into my adult life.

When my mother died a few years ago, I shaved my head. I wanted no reminders. But it grew back, and I seem to leave pieces of it everywhere now. I'm not sure why I keep it.

***

Tonight, I will go to the movie matinee with Sam from OkCupid. Sam likes dogs and smoking and claims to drink only socially. I wonder what shampoo Sam will have waiting for me in the shower. I like getting to sample all different kinds.

I've had hookups ask to shower with me before. That's always awkward. I tell them no, it's a ritual I have. It's hard to explain, but I like the time alone after. I like the warm water running down my back, the steam filling my lungs, the quiet so clear you can hear only the hum of the pipes.

Tonight, I'll wash up in Sam's shower, soothe my aching muscles, clean my body with whatever soap is there, run my fingers through my hair.  I'll pick up my shed hair after, being careful not to leave anything behind. I won't break any Rules. I'll go home and fall asleep while my hair's still wet and wake up to a mess in the morning.

Amanda Hadlock is a Graduate Assistant at Missouri State University, where she teaches creative nonfiction and composition courses. She won the 2018 Moon City Review student competition in nonfiction, judged by Donald Quist. You can also find her first graphic narrative publication online at Hobart.

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