Hunting for Hair:
A Rapunzel Retelling
By Chelise Fry.
Chapter One
My parents were extremely paranoid. They never left the cottage past eight o’clock and never strayed from the road for fear of Wolfies. Even when they did go out, they always carried a freshly baked loaf of bread under their cloaks, just in case they got lost and needed to make breadcrumb trails to lead them back home. They never talked to strangers; in fact, they never even looked at strangers. In winter, my mother baked sugar cookies, snickerdoodles, and chocolate shortbread, but she never once made a gingerbread man. She said it was because father didn’t like their taste, but I was always pretty certain it was because he was scared that they might come to life and start running around screaming, “You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!” all over the place. I knew this because he often mumbled those words in a troubled manner between snores during his evening naps. My parents were the type of people who never got into trouble and never had any adventures. They were definitely not the type of people who concealed dark secrets about their pasts, got involved with psychotic witches, had their child stolen away, and ended up with a family curse that made their descendant’s hair grow at alarmingly ridiculous rates. Yet, somehow, they were that type of people, because that is exactly what happened to them.
♥
“Florian,” said father, wheezing as he grabbed the edge of my vest and pulled me close. His voice was grating, his eyes desperate, his breath stale and hot. Bread crumbs dribbled down his still unbearded chin, which had never seen a single hair even though he was seventy years old.
“Yes, father, I know never to talk to strangers.” I sighed, running my fingers through my short-cropped, blonde hair and staring at the ceiling as I tried not to show the annoying, hot tears that pooled in the corners of my eyes. This is worse than when mother died, I thought. Poor father, he has only me to comfort him as he goes. And I’ve no one after he’s gone. In all honesty, the thought was a bit freeing. I reproached myself sharply for my coldness and tried not to admit it to myself, but there it was.
Having been trapped inside with their paranoia for twenty years had left me somewhat cynical and bitter. My friends were imaginary, furry, or feathered, since I’d never been allowed to play with other children. The windows of our cottage were always boarded up and since we all went to bed at seven o’clock, I had never seen the stars. For a kid who spent every moment his parents weren’t looking making swords out of sticks and pretending to fight dragons and sea monsters, it was a pretty stifling lifestyle. However, I loved my parents dearly. We spent every waking moment together – fishing and gardening with father, chopping wood for mother and watching her bake – and so I had stayed, even when the other young men from the surrounding villages all went off to seek their fortunes. I stayed because I loved them. I stayed because reading about grand adventures in books was almost as good as living them (wasn’t it?). I stayed because, naturally, some of their paranoia had rubbed off on me and that meant I was under the false delusion that staying out past eight o’clock was ‘daring’. But mostly I stayed because of my secret. Because of how much trouble it would cause. Because of how mortified I would be if anyone ever found out about it. Little did I know my parents had secrets too.
“Yes, and you must never forget that wise piece of advice from your mother. If you talk to strangers, you might get eaten up. But what I really wanted to say is that you must…” he coughed again, turning white and scarlet in turns.
Taking his trembling hand in my big one, I finished his sentence for him. “Never stay out past eight o’clock, never leave the path, and always carry a loaf of bread no matter where I am going.”
“No, no, no!” he spluttered, growing irritated with his inability to finish the sentence the way he wanted. “That’s all exactly as we taught you and most wise, but that’s not what I wanted to say! I wanted to say that you must find your sister!”
“My sister?” I stared at him in bewilderment. “Find my what…I mean my who? My sister? I don’t have a sister!”
“Yes, yes you do, my son. Her name is…” he leaned forward in a violent fit of hacking and I helped support his back. “Her name is Rapunzel.”
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