Pinhead.

Yesterday, as I was sitting in one of the writer's cubicles, I reached my hand back behind my head to floof my hair, and brought out a straight pin.

Buried up in my hair. On my head. Where my brain lives. Yet I'm fairly certain I removed all the straight pins from my hair before I left the house that morning.

I am not terribly surprised that this pin Houdinied its way way into my hair just as I was sitting with the one writer whom I've tormented so mercilessly in pursuit of a Christmas book deadline. But I think she must surely have had an accomplice, and so am left trying to determine which of the others might also have it in for me.

Unless it's all of them.