The physics of cat hair

Many years ago I got into the habit of wearing black, and to this day most of my clothes are black. I was never a Goth, and the black wardrobe is not an artistic statement. It is a statement of laziness: if all your clothes are black, they always match. Black clothes are practical if you are clumsy and given to crashing into things without provocation; they hide dirt and stains better. However, they have one arch-nemesis: white fur.

As luck would have it, I went on to adopt three cats with white bellies. Three cats with white bellies who enjoy sitting, crouching, and lying on my black clothes. When they get up, they leave a layer of white hairs in their shape.

If you have a cat, dog, or other furry pet, you are probably aware that pet hair has amazing properties. Apparently it can pass through walls. A friend of mine once volunteered to look after a neighbor’s cat. The cat stayed in the guest room and did not wander around the house. Still, the entire house ended up under a coating of cat fur. No matter how much fur cats shed, their density never decreases.

At first I foolishly thought that I could deal with the cat hair situation without the aid of technology. Although my cats are all shorthairs, I brush them at least once a week. Mat, who is the largest and whitest, has the longest hair and is therefore the most active shedder, hates being brushed. When I announce, “Time for brushy-brushy!” he instantly vanishes. Fortunately his powers of invisibility are not as strong as he thinks. Also, he cannot resist the call of “Treats!” The whole time he is being groomed, no matter how gently the brush is applied, he looks at me as if his rights were being violated. Cats have great powers of guilt-laying.

Koosi and Saffy are conflicted about brushing. They seem to enjoy it for a minute or two, then they turn on the hand holding the brush with fangs and claws.

To pick cat hairs off the furniture and other household objects, I use a damp cloth or a roll of adhesive tape. You wrap your hand in tape, sticky side out, and pat the chairs so the hairs stick to the tape. Sheets and blankets are more problematic. You can shake them all you want, but the dislodged cat hair will just settle back onto them.

You’ll need a lot of adhesive tape.

Before going out, I would go over my clothes and bag with a lint roller. It works on the same principle as the tape, except that it’s handy. Between the brushing, wiping, taping and rolling, I thought I had the hair situation under control.

Then one day, during lunch in a brightly-lit restaurant, I realized that my clothes were covered in cat hair. I felt like an urchin. My solid black tote bag looked like it had a zebra print. If the layer of fur I was unknowingly carting around were any thicker, an animal rights activist would’ve come up to me and sprayed me with red paint.

From that moment on, I became conscious of the tyranny of cat hair. I realized that everything I own is covered in it. When I caught a cold, I began to worry that my lungs were full of it. (Even if I had read somewhere that allergies are triggered not by the fur itself but by dander or the residue of dried cat saliva, which is on the fur.) I resolved to buy a vacuum cleaner.

But what kind of vacuum cleaner? While walking through the mall, I passed an auto supplies shop that was holding a sale. Car vacuum cleaners for P499! In my excitement at finding such a great deal, I neglected to check its power source. Naturally, it had to be plugged into that thing in your car where the lighter goes. It was, after all, a car vacuum cleaner. It had no battery compartment or an AC adaptor.

True, I could get a car, but since my apartment is on a higher floor I’d have to find a way to drive it up the stairs. Then I’d still need to extend the power cord. A friend told me that there was an adaptor I could buy so the vacuum cleaner could be plugged into a wall socket.

So I went to a couple of hardware stores. “I have a car vacuum cleaner that I’d like to use inside the house,” I told the sales clerk. “Do you have an AC adaptor so I can plug it into an electrical outlet?”

The sales clerk looked at me strangely, then summoned another clerk.

After I had repeated my question to 10 clerks, I decided that such an adaptor did not exist.

I called my sister. “Surprise!” I cried. “I got you a car vacuum cleaner!”

After that fiasco, I put off shopping for a vacuum cleaner. The fur coverage of my apartment grew more comprehensive. I began to wonder if it was time to switch to an all-white wardrobe.

Then December rolled around, and my sister asked me, “What would you like for Christmas?”

And in the year 2008, I got the appliance that suburban American housewives wished for in the 1950s. The cat hair situation seems to be under control: I can see my furniture now. My black clothes look black in bright light. I feel less urchin-like. I know, though, that cat hair is insidious. It will find a way to invade my life once again.

But I have faith in technology. Somewhere, some genius will develop a force field that will repel pet hair without offending our pets.

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