The Weirdest Christmas Gift Ever
What’s the weirdest Christmas gift you’ve ever gotten? Was it an adult unicorn onesie? A fork that farts? Maybe you got a three-headed dildo or a chocolate covered…cockroach.
Whatever it was, I’m pretty sure I have you beat. More than a decade ago, I received a Christmas gift so unexpected, that I’m still juiced up on it today.
The year was 2008. I was a 20-something in Hollywood, California and my life was in flecks.
I was going through a readjustment period after a year of “global travel and self-discovery,” which means:
- My recycling bin reeked of sour grapes from weekly vino binges.
- I slept on a twin mattress on the floor that was all-too-often congested with the contents of my purse. A stray tampon, lip gloss, discarded bras, a pen with pink fur sprouting from the top, quarter rolls for the washing machine.
- And I commuted several hours each day to a mindless job in the sinuses of the entertainment industry.
I shared this fate with my sweet roommate Kristin. On your average weekday evening, you’d find us couch-bound and wine-glassed, watching reality T.V. and hanging out with our official apartment boyfriend Mister, Kristin’s gray tabby. Mister was gloriously obese. When he sat, his fat folds swirled like cupcake frosting.
One December evening, Kristin and I were one bottle of wine deep when the doorbell rang. A package. For me. International post from Nic in Nepal. Exciting.
Kristin paused the TiVo.
I opened the padded envelope and patted its innards. My hands scoured for the paper folds, for some words of wisdom from across the globe. Instead, I felt a bristly mass.
“What the…”
“What is it,” Kristin asked in between hiccups.
“No idea.” I lodged the mystery clump between my fingers and tugged, ever so gently. Out rolled a single brown dreadlock. It was the length of my entire forearm.
Kristin screamed. I flung the thing towards the carpet, which, apparently, was Mister’s cue. His claws shot out and he pounced atop the clump. Before we could stop him, Mister took a big, toothy bite.
Kristin screamed again.
I pulled the dreadlock away from Mister, with some effort, and let it dangle from my left hand. Kristin just stared, waiting for some sort of explanation.
What does one do with a stray dreadlock anyway, I thought. Do I drape it around the Christmas tree like a garland? Cram it in a ziplock and put it in the freezer like a scientific specimen? Stick it in the freaking garbage disposal? I opted to stuff it back in the envelope.
“It’s from a friend. He’s a…traveler,” I said as if that one word explained everything. We both took a mouthful of wine.
“I’m sorry. That’s just gross,” Kristin said, before returning to her T.V. program.
“Merry Christmas to me,” I joked. But my mind was years away.
Who does that? Who cuts off their dreadlock and mails it without explanation? Nic. That’s who. I met the Frenchman a year before in Istanbul. Nic was a special being. The kind who flows between countries as readily as most people do conversations.
Anyone who travels for long periods can attest, there’s a potent bond that forms between backpackers crisscrossing the planet. It’s this emotional stickiness forged between young people who actively resist roots. On the road, you go for days or months as the “other.” Then, you meet someone on the same journey, someone who is addicted to the same alienation, and you find a sort of relief in the most mundane of exchanges. It’s in these platonic pockets of love that you can truly feel the impact of your adventure. That was me and Nic. Two new friends and two full days, straddling Europe and Asia.
“I’m jealous of your dreads,” I told him at some point. It might have been when we were looking out on the Bosphorus’s indigo waters, wrapped in pashmina shawls. Or maybe when we were breathing in the saffron and paprika potions at the Spice Bazaar.
“Why,” Nic asked.
“Because they’ve seen more of the world than me.”
I tucked myself into my bedroom, far from the television’s blares, and plopped onto my mattress. A used dreadlock is mighty unsanitary, especially one that’s been fermenting in an envelope for thousands of miles. Still, I pulled the wad out from its cover to inspect it closer.
Several months before Nic’s dreadlock delivery, I had decided to return to the United States. It was time to actually make money, get a real career, and stop outrunning my life. Back at “home,” the 9–5 quicksand was destroying me. I just hadn’t realized it yet. This dreadlock, I swear to you, was like a furry lasso that kept me from going under.
This beautiful mash of hair had crossed so many countries I’d longed to see, from Tajikistan to Iran. It knew secrets, held traces of the beyond presented to me on a postal platter. And, here I was, lucky enough to breathe in its microbial dust.
Not just that. Nic sent me the truest thing he owned. They say hair doesn’t lie. If you so much as think something dirty, your hair braids the crime into its depths. Have you ever looked at your own hair? Examined its breaks and troughs. Hair does NOT lie.
For two weeks, I stored Nic’s dreadlock safely under my pillow (far from Mister’s watch). Turns out a two-week dosage was all I needed. One month later, I had quit my job and was on my way to explore India, spinning with the earth once again. To this day, I remain on foreign soil.
I suppose that’s the power of gifts. The really good ones, anyway. Once unwrapped, they unlock a dragon of desires — ones we’ve forgotten or maybe didn’t even know we had. They’re like this compass, directing us towards our blindspots before it’s too late.
I wish I remembered what happened to that dreadlock. Strange as it seems, once it served its purpose, I just sorta lost track. Did I leave it for Mister as a chew toy? Send it to a fellow wanderluster? Odds are, in my rush to hit the road, I inadvertently donated it to the local Salvation Army, an orphaned dreadlock crammed between two old dresses.
