Through the smoke, you can see a brown-skinned man puffing on a long, wooden, feathered pipe. His long, black hair flows over his shoulders, and he looks at you with no expression. His eyes flicker up to your hair. He stands, and steps toward you slowly, but with purpose. You don’t feel afraid. He reaches up and puts his fingers in your hair, rubbing it between his fingers. Then, curiously, he takes ahold of a handful and gives it a firm tug. It doesn’t exactly hurt, but you wonder why he does this. “Mm,” he says, nodding with satisfaction. He waves you over to the place where he was sitting and picks up a hatchet from the ground. Now that the smoke is clearing, you see a line of scalps with lovely hair still attached, pinned up in a tidy row on the wall behind him.
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