To Be A Cat

The Hairs

BARNEY STILL FELT wide awake from his deep nap at the restaurant, and was allowed to stay up late as it was his birthday.

‘That was very odd, you falling asleep like that,’ his mum commented. ‘I think we might need to take you to hospital to get you checked out.’

‘I’m all right now. I think I’m feeling better.’

But then, while he sat on the sofa watching TV with his mum, his arms started itching and he began to rub them.

‘Barney, don’t do that. You’ll make them sore,’ Mum said, switching from polar bears to a quiz show.

‘I can’t help it.’ He unbuttoned one of his cuffs, rolled up the sleeve and started to scratch the skin directly. ‘They’re so itchy.’

As he scratched he saw one, then two, then three thick black hairs on his right arm. They were pure jet-black, way darker than his normal mousy mid-brown hair colour, and were arranged like points in a neat line just below his wrist.

‘Mum, look – these hairs.’

‘Oh yes, you’re turning into a man. Well, now that you’re nearly a teenager you’ll be starting to get hairy all over the place.’

‘But they’re weird. They’re black. I don’t have black hair. And they weren’t there yesterday. They weren’t even there this afternoon. I don’t want to turn into a man that quickly.’

She wasn’t listening. She was too busy looking at his forehead.

‘What is it?’ Barney asked her.

‘Oh dear, I’ll just get the tweezers,’ she said, before disappearing up to her bedroom.

Meanwhile, Barney went to look in the hallway mirror to see what the matter was.

There, right in the middle of his forehead, was another thick black hair.

‘Right,’ his mum said, running back down the stairs. ‘I’ve got the tweezers. Let’s pluck it out. Stand under the light so I can get a good look at it.’

Barney did as she instructed, staring up at the bulb, which shone little white whiskers of light. A part of him quite enjoyed his mum giving him so much attention. But another part of him was worried.

‘Mum, what’s happening to me?’

‘Nothing’s happening,’ she reassured him. ‘Bodies are strange things. You can get hairs anywhere.’

‘But I feel itchy as well. My arms, and my legs.’

‘Well, don’t scratch right now,’ she said. ‘Stay still and we’ll get this out.’

Barney stayed still even though his skin felt like it was covered with a hundred invisible mosquito bites.

‘Right,’ his mum said. ‘This might hurt just a little bit.’

She pressed the tweezers together, jamming the hair between the ends. Then she started to pull. And pull.

And pull.

She had one hand pressed onto his head and the other was trying to tug out the hair. Barney winced, his eyes watering from the pain as the hair was pulled and tugged and yanked.

‘How weird,’ she mused. ‘It just won’t come out.’

A horrible image flashed into Barney’s mind. He imagined walking into school and Gavin making even more jokes about him than normal. Hey, look at the werewolf! Or something equally hilarious.

Then his mum went and got the cream she used on her upper lip to stop her getting a moustache, but that didn’t do anything except add a red circle around the black hair – just in case it wasn’t noticeable enough already.

Barney wanted to tell her that this needed to be sorted out, but he felt another wave of overwhelming tiredness. This time, though, he managed not to fall asleep right there. He just yawned a ‘Goodnight’ and a ‘Better go up’ to his mum, and had a vague thought that he should confess about the letter, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have the courage. Or the energy.

Instead he promised to wash his face and brush his teeth, and climbed upstairs in a sleepy trance. Then he went to bed (without washing his face or brushing his teeth – or even closing his curtains), collapsing on his mattress and pulling the duvet over him before falling into the deepest, darkest sleep of his life.