
The chair goes up, little one, higher than any chair should go, and a cape comes down over you like a shiny waterfall. Somebody you have met exactly once is standing behind you with scissors. And then it starts, right beside your ear, in the place you cannot see: snip. Snip snip. Your hands grip the arms of the chair.

Growy hops up onto the shelf, in among the bottles and the brushes. 'The scary bit is not the haircut,' Growy says, watching your face in the mirror. 'The scary bit is that the snip snip happens exactly where your eyes cannot go. Your ears are doing all the work, all alone, with no help at all.' That is it. That is exactly it.

'So here is a secret about hair,' says Growy. 'It is the only part of you that has already finished growing. It cannot feel one single thing. Not scissors, not anything.' You are not sure you believe that. So Growy says: 'Watch the cape. And listen properly this time.' You watch a piece of your hair drift down onto the shiny cape, and as it lands you hear it: the smallest chime, like a bell the size of a crumb. Then another. Another. Nobody else in the whole shop can hear them. Only you.

Growy asks for a little trim too, of course, and comes down off the shelf with a fringe so crooked it goes uphill. Growy looks in the mirror and lets out a long, tragic groan. 'It grows back,' you tell Growy. 'It always grows back.' Growy stops mid-groan and beams at you. 'Now YOU are the one who knows it: your hair cannot feel a thing. And it always, always grows back.'

The cape comes off with a snap, and you spin the chair around once, just because you can, and your head feels light and new. Growy hops down and asks, 'So, little one... did we grow a little today?' You did. 'Here is your little grow for tomorrow,' says Growy. 'Put your hand on top of your own head and hold it there. That part is growing right now, this very second.' See you tomorrow, little one.
