I have a friend who can be relied upon to be honest with herself.
“I’ve got a feeling,” she said recently, rubbing her chin with the ends of her fingers, her eyes glazed and staring into the distance.
“Hairs. I’m going to be sprouting hairs somewhere on my face, and soon. I can just tell.”
“What, you get a tingly feeling, or what?”
“Something like that,” she said. “Ya weirdo.”
“You’re the one predicting hair growth,” I said.
“Hmm,” she said, as if to concede a point. “I’ve got a theory.”
I waited. Mary’s theories are the stuff of legend.
“Hair Fairies,” she repeated. Her fingers ceased their exploratory trek across her chin. “Like the opposite of a Tooth Fairy. See, she doesn’t show up to take hairs away, she stops by to drop them off.”
“On your face.”
“And yours,” she said.
I felt my chin. “I don’t feel any,” I said.
“The Hair Fairy usually comes at night,” she said thoughtfully. She paused. “We should make a pact.”
I sighed. “OK. A pact. Regarding?”
“Stray hairs. If you see any on me, you’ll tell me, just like the spinach-on-the-teeth thing. And if I see any on you, I’ll tell you. Deal?”
Well who can pass up that kind of deal?
Pearl Throckmorton, reporting for Hair Fairy duty, SIR!
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