Even in the half-light of the candle scones, Junie can tell it isn’t made of down feathers like the McQueens’ other pillows. She grabs a handful and holds it toward the light. Wiry, black coils of human hair. The same as Muh’s and Auntie’s short locks, hidden under scarves. The same as Minnie’s and her mother’s. The same as her own. She rips each pillow open, spilling entrails of curls until the room is covered in a fine layer of three generations of her family’s hair. Just somethin’ that happens when you get older, Granddaddy had said. The McQueens have stolen their hair and used it to make
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