room has floorboards painted white with a little red rug on top. We couldn’t see any hair. It wasn’t in the bin and it wasn’t in her bed or under the pillows.
“Where’s the rest of your hair?” I said.
“It’s not here,” Iggy whispered. But I saw her eyes look down at the red rug and then I knew.
We lifted it up together and, underneath, Iggy’s chopped and golden hair shifted in the breeze like plants at the bottom of the sea, like the very last bit of a princess who was turning invisible. It looked so pretty lying there that Iggy must have missed it because she burst into tears.
Dad said, “it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”
Mum said, “When you stop crying I’ve got something to show you.”
I counted in my head to a hundred and Iggy was nearly finished. Her shoulders were still going up and down, but she wasn’t filling the room with noise like before.
“Come with me,” Mum said.
We went back downstairs to Mum’s thinking room and she opened a drawer, looking for something. Iggy was still sniffing. “Here it is,” Mum said, and she pulled out a photo which she gave to Iggy.
“Let’s see,” I said.
It was a little girl about the same age as Iggy.
“That’s me,” Mum said, and Iggy giggled.
“You look funny,” I said.
“I know,” Mum said. “I’d just cut my own hair.”
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