There's a hair in my pie...

There's a hair in my pie, and I don't think it's mine.

I wonder how it got there, this poor forlorn hair;
Whether it longs for its home, and those that it left behind;
And whether its owner has enough left to spare;
As these cold winter months start to pass...

I wonder if my hair gets misplaced too,
And to whom it presents itself;
What lives they might live and what they might make,
Of the poor forlorn hair that they find.

I wonder if they will think of me,
And how I feel the cold...

Mostly however, I stare at my pie,
And hope that there aren't any more...