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Harry the Hair

Harry wasn’t really anything special. To tell you the truth he was only one strand of thousands like him; just a greasy strand of protein. There was really nothing special about him at all.

Harry lived on the head of a five year old girl called Lucy and he loved it. Lucy would comb him and the other hairs daily. Occasionally she would even dress him up with lovely pink ribbons and hair clips that looked like butterflies.

Harry loved his life atop Lucy’s head and couldn’t imagine a happier existence than the one he had, he was completely content with every aspect of his life; even if he could he wouldn’t change a thing.

Life was perfect, and today was another perfect morning.

Harry lay comfortably on Lucy’s head wondering what kinds of marvelous things this wonderful new day would bring. Lucy stood staring out of her bedroom window, marveling at the tiny rainbow colours inside the droplets of dew that had settled on the leaves of the rose bush just outside her bedroom window. As she watched the droplets slowly make their way to the edge of the leaves she stroked her hair with her favourite red brush.

It was during this time when Harry felt a strange sensation. He felt unsteady and slightly tingly at his base. “What’s happening to me?” He felt dizzy and wobbly at the root; he had never felt anything like this before and he had no idea what to do. The blood red brush pulled across Harry once more and he felt like he was coming loose. Harry was petrified and let out a tiny high pitched squeal.

“Eeeeeeeeee.”

The evil red brush reared up once more and swooped down upon him. Once again, he felt a sharp tug and a pinging sound. Before he had time to figure out what had happened he collided heavily with a large white mass and was knocked unconscious.

When Harry regained consciousness he was lying in the middle of what seemed to be a vast sun baked mud flat, which may have once been a mighty lake. There were deep cracks and vast lines everywhere on this cold white surface. Harry thought to himself that whatever it was vaguely resembled a close up picture of the dry skin on an elephants behind. Harry figured it was neither a desert nor an elephants behind as the odds of falling from Lucy’s head in her bedroom on to a desert or an elephant was next to impossible. He tried to sit up to survey the area in which he had landed, but found the fall had paralyzed him from root to tip. And so he lay there, he was cold, scared and alone, and wedged between two flakey cracked pieces of the Sahara elephant ass desert. After a time the shock of his situation wore off, boredom set in and he realized he had simply fallen on to the ledge of the bedroom window.

Five days past and Harry hadn’t moved. He longed for company and something to do. For now it seemed he was destined to live out his days where he was, isolated and lonely on the bland white window ledge. Days went by, weeks passed and the months dragged on, Harry just lay there all by himself.

He yearned for companionship.

The day he got it he realized he was better off without it. His companionship, if you could call it that came in the unsightly form of a small, furry, green piece of mould called Nigel.

Harry didn’t like Nigel for two reasons.

The first reason was because Nigel was a liar. Harry had realized this the first time he had ever spoken to him.

“Hey, what’s your name slim?”

“Oh, my name is, my name is umm Harry. Yeah, my name’s Harry.”

“Harry aye? Harry the hair. Ha. What a stupid name. Well my names Nigel.”

Harry looked at the furry piece of mould and noticed that Nigel was wearing a small circular name tag with red writing that said ‘Hi, my name is Fred.’ After that Harry never trusted the furry green liar with the complexion that looked like the felt lining of a pool table.

The second reason Harry didn’t like Fred or Nigel or whatever he called himself was for the obvious reason. As everybody knows mould are notorious for being incredibly vulgar and Fred/Nigel or whatever he called himself was no exception. That dirty piece of mould would tell the most amazingly foul jokes about almost every subject. Harry hated him so very much and he kept to himself as much as he could.

Keeping to himself wasn’t an easy thing to do however.

Anytime the lifeless white window ledge became even slightly moist the foul mouthed mould would create an exact replica of himself. What was worse though was the replicas were exactly the same as the first Fred/Nigel and would lie about their names, and tell the exact same dirty jokes as the original Fred/Nigel had. This tested Harry on a daily basis; he could feel the queer malformed noose of insanity tightening around him and his once coherent mind.

It had been an extremely out of character wet and warm spring and by this stage the window ledge wasn’t very white at all; in fact the whole ledge had an unsightly green tinge to it, and by this stage Harry was now hearing the same lies and dirty jokes about a million times a day.

Harry was so sick of this and wanted it to stop so badly that he had considered stopping breathing and just giving up all together. Then he realized this would do him no good at all as he didn’t need oxygen to survive, and further more had no respiratory system.

One particularly upsetting afternoon Harry was trying to block out the story coming from the foul mouths of the now fifty million replicated Fred and Nigel’s talking at him simultaneously about the time they had lived on the ceiling above the shower.

“You should have seen this one Lady” the fifty million voices shrieked “She never went to the toilet before she showered; never.”

Harry tried to block the voices out. He didn’t want to hear about Lucy’s mother. She was a nice lady who use to shampoo and condition him with stuff that smelled like apples.

“And do you know what she would do every morning before the shower was through she would…”

Harry stopped listening, he could smell lemon or what he thought was lemon.

“Yeah you wouldn’t believe it, all over the scrubbing brushes and everything. She would even let it run all down her legs and on to her feet. Hey what’s that lemon smell.”

Harry didn’t know what the smell was, but by now it was all over them. It was a light yellow, creamy colour and although it smelled like lemon it had the burn of tobasco sauce and the consistency of chalk. The Fifty million vulgar voices collectively screamed “Ahhhhhh, you’re killing us, you’re killing us!”

Harry didn’t mind he was just glad that the jokes had stopped. And in a jiffy the foul mouthed, fifty million Fred and Nigel’s were gone.

Suddenly a big soft yellow mass that looked like the surface of the moon descended upon him. It was warm and soft and nice. It tickled him a little bit and he giggled, Harry was happy. It was the first time he had giggled in a long time.

He was finally happy again.

With one gentle movement of the yellow moon he was dislodged from the crack in the paint and came to rest in a bright blue bucket. He floated gently in a sea of warm frothy water.

Harry didn’t mind even though he couldn’t swim and he drifted to the bottom of the soapy sea and began to dream. He dreamed of the time when he belonged to a head and had friends. A little smile appeared on his face; Harry was content and had a feeling everything was going to be ok.

He was warm and happy and slowly Harry drifted into a dark sleep. A short while afterward Harry no longer felt the warmth of the water and it was only dark. And a moment after that the darkness dissolved and Harry saw nothing, felt nothing, and was nothing.

All that remained was a greasy strand of protein, nothing special at all. A single strand of hair that had once belonged to a little girl called Lucy.