Maidenhair

Her hair is an endless river of night, a glossy, star-flecked black. It fills the forest behind her, a record of every step she has ever taken. It snags on branches and tangles in brambles. Birds nest in it. Rivulets break away, flowing into rabbit burrows and fox dens, tributary strands that gradually dwindle. She stands here, one foot lifted, waiting for her hair to grow long enough for her to place it down and raise the other.

I stand before her with my silver shears. Her eyes are wide, brimming with tears.

I wish I knew what to do.

A Rag, Clenched in Teeth

You know that feeling, that tingle all over your body when you’re scared? Really, truly frightened? That’s your hair, rising up. Horripilation.

Say that word with me. Let it linger.

When it happens to monkeys, they become twice their usual size. All hair, of course. Look fierce. Your hair isn’t like that. Small hair, thin hair. Hair for fear.

The bumps you feel? They tell you it’s the muscles erecting the hair, but it’s not. Your hair knows what’s coming. It’s trying to get away, tugging at your skin.

Let’s help it.

Pluck.

Pluck.

Yes, just like that. That’s horripilation.

Down to Here, Down to There

“Get a haircut,” grumbled Stockton.

“Whatever, old man!” said the long-haired youth.  “You just can’t handle it.  This is what’s coming!”

Stockton shook his head and walked away.  Soon, the hair was everywhere.  Men, women, boys, girls, everyone with luxuriant locks spilling down their shoulders, their backs, even further.  Everyone (except Stockton) rejoiced in the new and exciting fashion.

Then a cat was photographed with a mop-top.  A horse sporting dreadlocks was spotted.  Everyone was mostly calm, though the question of how was raised.

Then came the day a window-washer found the first new hairs growing from the thirty-ninth story…