Written to accompany Edward Mapplethorpe’s photos, this story is peopled with historical and mythical figures known for their hair (or lack thereof).

Project Text
Right at six-thirty they trickle into the small, windowless room. The statuesque beauty sits at the opposite end of the large, lumpy couch from the buff bodybuilder, and the young woman with the shaved head sinks into a chintz armchair across from them. They greet each other with nearly imperceptible nods, their impassive faces betraying little. After a short time, a compact brown man enters the room and the energy shifts considerably. He takes his seat in a hard-backed wooden chair and exhales a long breath as he examines each of the faces now turned toward him. With a small smile he asks, Who would like to be the first to share? I’ll go, says the big man, wiping his palms on his powerful thighs. Just bear with me a moment while I collect my thoughts. Oh, no need to collect them, smiles the brown man. That’s my job. They smile, the young woman barks out a short laugh, and the big man clears his throat. Well, he says, I’m still dealing with a lot of guilt. About divulging your secret? asks the brown man. That, comes the answer, but also about the Philistines, and…and about surviving. It’s not like you didn’t get punished in a big way, says the young woman raising her shapely eyebrows. The big man turns his face toward her, the burned-out sockets of his eyes like two gaping mouths. I may not be able to see, he says insistently, but I’m still alive. I killed tens of thousand of them. Once I killed a thousand in a single battle, using only the jawbone of a donkey I found lying in the sand. We know, sighs the beauty. Too bad my tears can’t restore your sight, too, she says, then you’d really feel guilty. Rapunzel, says the brown man, is that how you’re feeling toward Samson today? I’m sorry, she replies a bit petulantly. It’s just that none of us gets to live happily ever after. I mean, my story ended on an up note and where am I? Since I cut my hair I can barely get a man to give me a second look. The young woman laughs again in that short, harsh way. Why don’t you try getting a life? she asks Rapunzel. Maybe I will but it won’t be as a social activist dyke, snaps Rapunzel. The young woman runs a large hand quickly over her bristly buzz-cut and shoots a look at the brown man. Lord Buddha, she says, I have shorn my locks but I can’t seem to shed these worldly feelings of hostility. I feel downright violent at times. Tell me about it, says Samson. Ah, sighs the Buddha. Godiva, you must continue to focus on the plight of others. Once you used your hair to help you outwit your husband and rid the poor populace of senseless taxes. Now, without your long veil of hair to shield you, you must find other ways of doing good. Godiva bows her head and studies her fingernails. I’ll never be good enough for you, will I? Rapunzel asks her. I even cut my hair off to get your approval, to be recognized as something more than a spoiled princess, and all you have is scorn. Her blue eyes flash, the color rises in her perfect cheeks. Samson reaches out and touches her shoulder. Hey, you’re a great gal. Oh come off it, Samson, she sneers. We all know you’re on a search-and-destroy mission so you can avenge yourself against all women for what Delilah did to you. Don’t think I’m gonna fall for your little ploy. She tosses her blonde bob indignantly. Samson looks wounded. Godiva smirks. The Buddha steeples his fingers and gazes down, the light reflecting off his shining pate. We’ll have to stop for today, he says evenly. We’ll pick this up again next week.