Clippings

A stranger used my clippers at some point. Should I be concerned?

Their hair was a light, gentle shade of brown, nothing like my coarse black curls. Short and straight, with a touch of fire. Where did these little trimming even come from? My roommate's hair is black and fine and made of wires. So where?

Also, why didn't this stranger clean the damn clippers?

Upon further inspection, trimming wasn't the only operation performed within my bath-and-a-half that fateful night. My soap and shampoo are at dangerously low levels, beyond where they should be. My toothpaste was down three solid brushes. I don't own cologne, but the place reeked of it. Toenail clippings were surprisingly present, and the toenails were cleaner and healthier than mine.

I'd been invaded by a fastidious metrosexual.

With a bit more digging (and the use of a kit I'd purchased during one of many bouts of obsessive compulsion), I came to more startling conclusions. Trace fragments of silk, latex, and alcohol clung to my shower drain – the invaded had been having sex, or at least their crotch had been. This, I found, to be unforgivable. No one has sex where my bathroom is involved.

Not even me. My invader was a competent, cupidous metrosexual...with a tendency to leave a mess and waste cleaning gels.

My resentment grew to a fever pitch.

I've set traps for him – extra combs and hair gels and exfoliates. When I catch him, I'll interrogate him for him secrets.

I'll also make him clean my fucking clippers. Really. Is that too much to ask?