I never thought I would come back to Helga’s Attic, and yet only a day after trading my hair for that watch chain, here I am.
I wasn’t sure if the store would be open on Christmas day, but Helga said she’s always open. Sure enough, when I get to the store, the lights are on inside. And when I open the door, Helga is standing behind the counter, just like she was when I left yesterday. It’s like she hasn’t moved an inch.
“Merry Christmas, Stella,” she says to me. “Merry Christmas, Helga,” I say.
Like yesterday, my eyes are drawn to that large skull she keeps on the shelf by the entrance. Not that I would know, but it looks very realistic. And given that the woman collects human hair, why not a human skull? I’m dying to know, but of course, it’s none of my business.
“How may I help you today?” Helga asks.
“Well…” I tug the sky-blue cap off my skull. “I was actually hoping to purchase a wig. It turns out short hair is not a good look on me.”
“Yes,” Helga says thoughtfully. “You may be right. However, you should know that my wigs are very expensive.”
“I was hoping we could make a trade.”
She hesitates for only a moment. “Very well.”
She leads me to the corner of the store. There are half a dozen wigs atop the disembodied heads of mannequins. My own hair is not on display yet, which I suppose makes sense. It must take time to create a wig.
“Also, you should know,” Helga adds, “that all of our wigs come with a set of ornamental combs.”
She digs around in a chest by the wigs until she pulls out a small box. I open it up, and inside is the most beautiful set of tortoiseshell combs. It is the loveliest Christmas gift I could imagine.
Helga squints up at me with her cloudy pupils. “Do you want to be blond again?”
“No,” I say thoughtfully. I run my hand through one of the red wigs. I wonder what I’d look like wearing it. People probably wouldn’t even recognize me. “I think it’s time for a change, don’t you?”
She clears her throat. “What do you wish to trade for one of my wigs?”
I reach into my pocket. I pull out a pocket watch with a silver chain attached to it and hold it out to her.
“This is a lovely piece.” She clutches the chain of the watch with her gnarled hands. She runs her thumb over the glass cover, halting on a dark red stain. Her eyes widen in alarm.
“That’s, um, tomato sauce,” I quickly explain. “It will wash right off.” “Yes,” she says. “I am sure.”
I hold my breath as she considers the trade. Finally, she lifts her eyes. “Yes. This is acceptable.”
She returns to her desk and places the watch in a drawer. But the whole time, she doesn’t take her eyes off me. I’m not sure if she believes the stain on that watch is tomato sauce. I should probably take my wig and be on my way.
After all, it’s Christmas Day. There’s quite a lot to do.
