Your question has brought back a painful memory for me. It was laying peacefully in the recesses of my mind, but you dislodged it, and since it's tumbled to the fore, I'd like to tell you about it.
The first time I kissed a girl that I really, really fancied was a wonderful experience, but it was also tinged with sadness. I was 22, and I’d just left university. (By the way, my first ever kiss was as a 6-year-old, and my friends rushed to tell me that I’d definitely contracted cooties, so that wasn’t a pleasant experience, especially as I thought I would be dead by late evening. I didn’t die.)
I had a tightly cropped beard - akin to the one Jake Gyllenhaal has in Enemy (but that’s where the similarities end, unfortunately - as the rest of my face is more Quasimodo, and less Hollywood film star). I woke one morning to find an errant white hair glistening in the mirror, and it had seemingly sprouted overnight. It was nestled between a crop of hairs just below my left dimple. I let it grow. I bathed it sunlight and massaged it with beard oil. It grew to be 5cm long, and I developed a deep affection for it. In fact, I named it Hannibal after the incomparable silver-haired Colonel from The A Team. I would even gently stroke it when feeling pensive. It was great.
A few weeks later, I was having lunch at my desk, and I began feeling a little unnerved for no reason at all - in hindsight, it was surely a sign that tragedy was to befall. I’d just finished devouring a stack of pancakes, and then went to the bathroom to wash my hands. I looked in the mirror and noticed Hannibal wasn’t there. I immediately realised that I’d slain him while violently eating my pancakes. I couldn’t believe it. I had dreams for him to grow up to 15cm long. I wanted to - one day far, far in the future - house him in a mahogany frame and hang it proudly on my wall. I was sad. I was really sad.
The same evening I went for dinner with an ex-colleague called Emily. We went to a seafood restaurant in Covent Garden. We had a great time. We kissed, and despite it just being a kiss, and not a full-on I’m-hoovering-your-face snog, it felt electric. But I couldn’t help but think about poor Hannibal. He could have been there, gently swaying in the wind, as he usually did, but he wasn’t. He was dead, and likely languishing in the bin, along with banana peels and old crisp wrappers.
Inspired by this memory, I’m going to try and sneak back into my ex-employer’s office, and install a plaque commemorating his life at my old desk, “RIP Hannibal. 2013-2013. You are missed”.