The town of Norr had long ago isolated itself with its towering, stone gray walls. Norr had been advised that demons were attracted to color, and soon after the walls were erected, the town’s Lord Sylvester Catherram had banished color to further protect Norr for the horrors of the outside world. Of course, Lord Catherram’s granddaughter went and had the gall to be born with a head of the most vibrant red hair.
The girl’s name was Nur. Every week for the first few years of her life, Nur’s head was shaved for her own protection. Such hair would surely result in demon raids, and it was common practice for those with violently colored hair to rid themselves of it regularly. Eventually, however, Lord Catherram’s daughter-in-law, Nur’s mother Florence, intervened.
“It just isn’t seemly for a lord to have a bald girl for an heir,” she said to him one evening over dinner. Lord Catherram paused in cutting his white pork (pink pork, of course, was banned). He peered over at his granddaughter to observe her cheerfully rubbing mashed potatoes into her blotchy bald head.
“I see,” he said blandly and decided to invest in a wig for his little Nur.
As it turned out, wigs at the time were inordinately expensive, and Norr, subsisting on the sale of what few colorless crops they could grow (leaves were carefully coated with enough dust to block out the green, but not enough to block out the sun) and their not-so-popular hand woven baskets, was relatively poor. Instead, Lord Catherram bought his granddaughter a hat.
Of course, Nur still shaved her scalp once a week. However, the hat covered her unsightly bald head, which, her nanny had noted, was also quite lumpy. This was further case to shield it from others’ eyes.
By age seven, Nur could shave her own head. By age ten, she was left to do it unsupervised. This was a relief to Nur, as she was fantastically jealous of her friend Josephine’s long plait of silky black hair. Stealing pins and combs from her mother’s bureau, Nur began growing out her hair and meticulously pinning it flat against her scalp. Luckily, her hair was easy to tame, and within her collection of hats she owned several that could completely obliterate her red locks.
Then came her eighteenth birthday.
“Isn’t it lovely?” crooned Lady Catherram.
“Yes, Grandmother. Gorgeous,” Nur murmured and she gave her grandmother a brief hug. This wasn’t a complete lie, she rationalized. This box, with its soft gray wrapping and fancy white bows, was quite pretty. The hat that had emerged from the box, however. Well. Nur would rather curl up in oven for a nap than wear it. It was the most hideous, garish thing she had ever seen: ridiculous wide gray brim, a zebra striped ribbon tied it six bulbous and terrifyingly frilly bows, and an assortment of drab feathers stuck out seemingly at random. Inspecting it further, Nur realized that a miniscule floral pattern had been stitched into the entirety of the hat with delicate white thread.
“It cost a pretty penny,” Lord Catherram chuckled. “I expect to see you wearing it quite often.” He beamed at her expectantly.
Nur smiled weakly at him. “Of course, Grandfather.”
Every March second, Nur’s birthday, all her friends and family would gather at the palace (Her grandfather called it a palace, but it was just a standard manor house.) Melvin the cook would serve dinner, which was always a surprise, although the rest of the evening was quite. A white cake with white icing and black licorice decorations would be served. The table would be cleared, and one by one the guests would present Nur, who would be seated at the head of the table, with gifts: friends first, then family. Nur’s parents, Florence and Edgar, always gave something practical, like new walking shoes or a book for writing practice, and her grandparents always gave something more indulgent: an expensive new dress or a box of sweets. Nur had always looked forward to her grandparents’ gift.
Disappointment, she decided, was bound to happen eventually.
“I’ll… go try it on,” Nur said calmly, and stood to excuse herself. She always made a show of being embarrassed about her baldness, lest someone discover her now shoulder-blade length hair. One her why to the door, she nodded at Josephine, who was gaping at her in dismay.
In the bathroom, Nur double-checked the door was locked and shed her chic black hat. In the mirror above the sink, she blinked at her reflection. Pink cheeks, round nose, brown eyes, and gauze wrapped tightly around her scalp. Once her hair had gotten to somewhere around her chin, it had decided it was going to be rather puffy and, while a wet comb did wonders, Nur feared it would free itself from its stolen pins. Thus she had began to wrap her hair. Josephine had caught a glimpse of the gauze once, but Nur shrugged it off, saying it made the hat more comfortable.
Once she was assured no sneaky tendrils of red head were escaping, Nur turned her attention to her new hat.
Hers. The possessive pronoun irked her.
“Alright, Nur,” she whispered. “It’s just a hat. You just have to wear it a couple times to make the grands happy.” She lifted it above her head. “It can be done!” she announced loudly to herself, and wedged the hat onto her head.
It fit surprisingly well, even over the lumpy mass of gauze and hair. At least she had that, Nur thought, and headed back to the dining room in better spirits.
Her high spirits were promptly crushed by screaming coming from within the room.
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