Rapunzel: A Hairy Situation
Last time I trust Henry Malone for anything.
Since the day we met he’s made his way pedaling snake-oil in the backalleys of Brighton Street. An alley cleaver like that isn’t to be depended on, not ever, least of all by a teenage girl.
It was early and my common sense had yet to wake up—it usually lags in about three hours behind me. I’d befriended this boy from school, Diggy, and for a few weeks we’d been conversatin’ in the cafeteria. I wanted to have him over. But I knew my last grounding had yet to release, which meant no company. We devised a plan where Diggy would sneak in through the window of my bedroom but therein resided the problem. My window was about twenty feet off the ground. Not even NBA jumping legs could get him that high. He offered to catapult off the dumpster, but alas, even Brighton’s notorious mountains of garbage couldn’t gain him enough leverage. So I made a rope by tying bedsheets together. Fortunately when it came untied he was less than three feet up.
Never one to surrender, I spent the night tossing and turning, desperate to form a plan. I’d have to utilize my creativity for this one, or so I thought till an answer broadsided me like a freighter flying 180. On my way to school the next morning I ran into Henry, his hair all greased-back and his trenchcoat hilariously oversized. Never one for subtlety, he threw it open, brandishing a vast spectrum of wares, from off-brand watches to off-brand perfumes to off-brand smartphones. If he had an off-brand kitchen sink in there somewhere I wouldn’t have been surprised. That was Henry.
“Hey kid. Wanna’ buy a watch?” he pressed.
“No thanks. I can miss the bus on my own. Those things are five minutes slow. You set ’em and a glitch stalls ’em out again.”
“Oh, come on. Perfume?”
“I have bad enough acne without a rash adding to the fray.”
“Smartphone?”
“Hear those things have a penchant for exploding. I want to keep my face.”
“Why?”
“Shut up.”
“Okayyy, Miss. What do you need?” he pursued. “Name anything and I’ll get it.”
The answer was only meant to be facetious.
“Got anything that’ll let me sneak someone in through my window? It’s two stories up and tying sheets just ain’t cutting it.”
“Yeah,” he shrugged.
“Just as I thought, you— Wait, what? You do?”
“Yeah. May sound crazy, but if yer willing to experiment I’d say there’s a way. You got real nice hair, see...”
“Okay. Creepy. Did your brain just short-circuit because that was totes non-sequitur.”
“Just listen. A tonic. It’ll make your hair grow at a hyperaccelerated rate, and you can use that hair as a rope.”
“That’s...the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I declared, before mulling it over a bit. “I mean it’s ridiculous. I feel insulted that you’d even—How much is it?”
“For you, five bucks.”
“Why do I pay you?” I huffed. “I’m not an idiot. But fool me this many times, shame ain’t even a factor anymore. It’s all numb.”
We made the exchange, and I slouched low in case anyone off the main road recognized me in passing. It felt dirty, like a drug deal. Was that it? Was I no more than his junkie now?
Speaking of junky, I slathered the stuff on my hair that night, hoping I wouldn’t die in my sleep. Maybe there wouldn’t be any bad reactions, or bad vibes. Maybe the hair wouldn’t grow inward and crush my brain to pulp. Like I was using it anyway...
The next morning I awoke to find myself an island amid a sea of hair. My golden locks churned around, leaving me to stifle a scream, be it from terror or joy I know not which. Well, at least I knew Henry hadn’t lied. In my cynicism I’d poured the whole bottle on, figuring it to be water. It was colorless and odorless. Easy mistake.
How was I gonna’ hide this from my parents, from my teachers, from everyone? I grabbed a baseball cap off my nightstand and attempted to stuff my hair into it like I used to. When that failed I slid on a hoodie, leaving my hair tucked inside. One problem—it flowed out the bottom like a fountain, dragging across the floor. So I gathered it and stuffed it under the hoodie’s copious flab, till I was inflated like a weather balloon. Thankfully Dad was already at work and Mom was busy with the baby. So I managed to slip out undetected.
“Dang. You cold, Zel?” Diggy made a face when he saw me. “What is this, a dare? Are you doing that dumb fifty hoodie challenge? You’re supposed to take them off right after. You’re not supposed to wear them around.”
Looking like an unhinged blob of humanity, I took him by the shoulders and guided him gently to the janitor’s closet where I proceeded to spill both my hair and my guts.
“This is insane,” he spat.
“Just one visit and I’ll cut it all off,” I pouted. “I want you to see my room.”
“That’s a long ways to go just to show me your room.”
“I’ve done stupider.”
“I believe you.”
That evening I was elated when a rock hit my window. I yanked the sash up and poked my head out to see Diggy standing below.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” he cried. I did. But I misjudged the distance and wound up crushing him. Slight collateral. He survived. And in five seconds he’d latched on and was shimmying up. I gritted my teeth, straining to hold his weight. Guess I didn’t really think that part through either. He weighed twice what I did, so it quickly became a contest of whether he’d make it or whether my head would pop off first. That would be unfortunate.
Speaking of unfortunate. When I was a kid I had this rope swing in the backyard of my fam’s old place. I’d enjoy hours of gliding through the air, till one day it snapped. Dryrot had eaten it from the inside, and though it looked perfectly intact and safe from the outside—it wasn’t. You probably get where I’m going with this. I even recalled the sensation. The rope jerked a bit, gave, gave more, then snap. I felt a similar sensation right then, as Diggy scaled my hair. He was almost to the window. But my hair was starting to jerk. The strands were breaking from the inside-out.
“Diggy!” I tried to scream, but it was too late. He was already on his way to the ground and I was already mentally throttling Henry Malone. A profound lapse of judgement. One of many.
The doctors said Diggy had a broken leg and a couple sprains. Nothing too serious. The tonic I’d used had worked, initially, but its cheap hack-job formula had weakened the hair, so while it was technically longer, that full look was just a brittle artifice. It wouldn’t have held a feather up long, let alone a human body.
Next time I saw Henry he had an ointment all whipped up that could supposedly heal Diggy’s broken leg.
“Woah, what happened to you?” he paused, after I’d lowered my hood and displayed the shaggy remnants of my new bob.
That was my only reply. Throttling him would’ve been overkill.
So I just kept walking.