Hair Horse

 Hair Horse

Jessie smelled Aaron’s head–it was a combination of powder and milk and warm, culminating in a swell in her chest that physically hurt. She touched his tiny head, resisting an urge to run her hand across the soft spots. He was completely, completely perfect. She twirled a tiny dark curl, marvelling, and made a small primal sound as he nestled against her. Looking down, she clicked her tongue like a camera.

Ten months later, she was staring at that same hair with small scissors in hand. It had grown to cover his eyes and her husband was insistent that Aaron be able to see. Her hand trembled and she put the scissors down on the washcloth, next to his special bag. Deep sigh. She would have to do this someday. Jesse had been older at her first haircut; she remembered her mother singing:

Scrunch your eyes

And wiggle your toes

Snip! Goes the clip

And in the bag it goes

Else Hair Horse will get this guy! 

They were some of her most special childhood memories, that intimate alone-time with her mother. It had been rare in their household, for lack of time rather than lack of love. Every six months, though, her mother would sit with her, and they’d talk, really talk, while Jessie’s mother cut her hair and gave the bag all of the trimmings. She’d tickle Jesse, who shrieked as her mother chanted “Get this guy!” Every year on her birthday, they’d empty the bag into running water–to keep it safe from the Hair Horse, who would try to steal the hair to take to the Fairy Queen. What the Fairy Queen would do with her hair was never spelled out. She’d asked, once, and her mother had replied:

The Mad Queen takes

And the Mad Queen will give

Drop! You won't stop

So long as you live

Mad Queen's joy never, never breaks

There was no tickling–her mother spoke solemnly, looking her in the eye. 

“You must promise me, Jessie, promise me now. No matter what the world tells you, don’t let your cut hair touch the ground. Don’t throw it away or wash it down the drain. My mother taught me, and her mother taught her, and her mother taught her, and I’m teaching you now–you must keep it safe. The head is the seat of your wisdom and your strength. You must pass this on to your children.”

Jessie stared at Aaron, sitting in his high chair. She wished her mother were there. Her husband was vaguely aware of her hair trimming habits, in the same way she knew he trimmed his beard. It happened out of sight. (She never left hair in the sink, though.) She had showed him the bag and he’d nodded amiably, saying they could put his first hair cut in the baby book. Perhaps she’d messed up along the way, keeping this secret. At some point, he’d want to take Aaron to a barber and what could she say then? 

And why was she holding so tightly to this ritual? She’d never spoken of it with her siblings; she knew they’d had the same special moments with their mother, but not if they were still like her, trimming her hair in secret in the bathroom, never letting a split end hit the floor. 

She looked at Aaron, his wide brown eyes, scissors still in hand. 

Was this something she really wanted to pass to him?

In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to let his hair fall. It felt wrong, discordant. She sang the song and pinched his toes, feeling the bittersweetness of his first haircut. She was using her childhood bag and it hit her: her child was using something his grandmother made. She picked him, crying a bit. They’d never meet, but here her mother was, giving him this gift.

She cinched the bag and put it next to hers, then picked the scissors back up. As beautiful as the moment was, she wouldn’t force him to do this his entire life. He should be able to sit at the barber with his father and his cousins. He should be able to have a girlfriend try to cut his hair. He should be able to shave his head or get a fade or do whatever he wanted without worrying about the Fairy Queen. That would be her gift to him, she thought. They would still have special moments, special rituals of their own, even special haircutting time,  and her gift to him would be allowing him to enjoy them without worry. Without scouring the counter to make sure every hair was accounted for. 

Still, though. He was too precious to risk. 

Jessie pulled a strand from behind her ear and stared cross-eyed at it. She held it in front of her until Aaron started to fuss, then she snipped off the last half inch and threw it out the window. 

Back turned, Jessie didn’t see the wind send it up, separating every individual hair. Each danced a different direction, unceremonious in the breeze.

That night, the Ring camera chimed at 3 am. It registered movement, but nothing was visible through the camera. Her husband went downstairs and said there was no-one at the door. 

“But,” he said, “there was something big over in the Jones’ yard. It was too big to be a deer. Looked like a horse more than anything.”

Jessie got through breakfast the next morning, saw her husband off to work, then sat at the table in silence. She held her coffee until it got cold and the cream clotted, moving only when Aaron began to cry. Had she ever told her husband about the Hair Horse? Surely she must have? She couldn’t remember… She stared at herself in the mirror, unable to find the shortened strand, feeling disconnected from herself in some way. She turned her head back and forth, eyes lagging behind like she was drunk. A large shadow slid across her and she flinched, turning, eyes still slow. 

A garbage truck grumbled down the street.

“Nothing is happening. You are fine. The Hair Horse isn’t real!” Jessie yelled, then caught herself. She sang in a high pitch to distract Aaron: “Everything is fiiiine.”

She burned the roast that night and forgot her husband’s boss’ name. 

The Ring alert went off at 3 again. The camera was black, but registering movement. Her husband went downstairs, joking about the horse being back. Trying to make her laugh, then yelling because the horse was back. Jessie grabbed her phone and robe, then slunk downstairs. Her husband was calling non-emergency to report the horse. The night outside was dark, moonless, and the streetlights were out. An animal silhouette moved across the front yard and, as Jessie moved through the living room, it moved with her. She went towards the window and the shadow grew larger and distorted. Her husband’s voice was static in the background.

The  door crushed inside, splintering suddenly. Her husband was yelling on the phone, then threw it down and began waving his arms, rushing the horse, trying to back it out of the doorway. The horse reared, somehow still silhouetted despite the living room lights, and her husband grabbed a poker from the fireplace. He began to swing. Aaron began to cry.

Jessie stood dumbly at the living room windows, aware that she should care. Her head still wasn’t attached to her body right. 

Strings began to weave around the horse-shaped darkness. They started as a small light against its topline, then braided together to form a barrel chest, haunches, corded hooves. Its head formed, small delicate ears, cheekbone raised in a braid. Eyelids and eyelashes grew, delicate as spiderweb, and when it opened its eyes, the inside was empty. Jessie could see through to the hollow inside. She felt her brain click in horrified, belated realization that this wasn’t string. This wasn’t cord. It was hair.

Her hair.

She began whimpering, backing away. In the periphery, her husband continued to swing the poker. He jabbed it into the horse’s side as it approached Jessie. He jolted off-balance, expecting resistance, but the chest was just as hollow as its head. It moved closer, head bobbing in a very un-horse-like way, and smirked at her before uncoiling around her. The horse was hot and heavy as it smothered her; she gasped and hair moved around her face, down her throat, spidering into her lungs, becoming coarser and heavier until Jessie felt herself fall, collapsing, hair thickening into ropes; and on the ground, the weight continued heavier and heavier, thicker around her head and blocking her husband’s yells, even Aaron’s high-pitched screams, until the floor collapsed into the basement. Jessie felt a small thud of impact before she sunk into unconsciousness, smell of her sweat and shampoo surrounding her.

&&&&&&&&&&To possibly be finished! Is there a Part 2 with the mad queen? What happens next? Who can say!