29. Listening to American stories

Hollywood Billy’s stories, like Yaya’s, were riveting. He had been through incredible adventures, done weird stuff and above all he had kept it all in his little camera for his best friends to see. Little-Hairy-Harry was witnessing a whole new world made of sparkles, flashes and cameras, and butts. So many butts! Famous butts, anonymous butts, sagging butts, some of them well toned, some waxed and some totally revolting. Apparently there were huge places dedicated to the life of butts. One could find films and TV networks, magazines, websites... He secretly promised himself he would check Stella out as soon as possible.

In the meantime, Little-Hairy-Harry was hooked to Billy’s funny stories. As a very special agent, he realized that supervising missiles being launched wasn’t the most glamorous job on earth. He wanted more. He was dreaming of that far far away land where all hairs were beautiful and tanned, and showing it off on TV.

Missile-watcher ? Seriously ? This was no true calling. Star hair in Butt-Land ? Oh yeah !

Hollywood Billy was lying on the ground, digesting the huge dinner Yaya had provided, some tomato juice still dripping from his goatee. Little-Hairy-Harry looked at him, smiled and finally got the guts to ask for his email.

28. Falling for Stella

« Hey Nitwit, come over here, I’m gonna show ya something awesome! »

Yaya was holding Hollywood Billy’s camera in his hands, displaying a particular picture on the screen. In the meantime, Holly was still grinning, very “toothily”.

« See her ? That’s Stella J. Hehe ! A cute hairette very close to Angie J. Not bad, huh? ».

Yaya winked at Holly, and Holly smiling teeth became even more prominent.

Little-Hairy-Harry was feeling a bit lost. He had never heard of Angie J. and he didn’t know about Brad P.’s most famous hair either, but Stella… there was something appealing and intriguing about her. Suddenly, his heart started pounding really hard and his hidey-hole became smaller, pfffft ! just like that. The situation was embarrassing, he stood up and looked far far away, hoping nobody had noticed. Yaya smiled, aware of what just happened.

« Hey Holly ! My friend ! why dontcha print that pic for H here ? As a souvenir… ».

« Yeah, yeah… ».

Little-Hairy-Harry stood still, showing no reaction, but a huge wave of love filled his heart, knowing he would be eternally thankful for his best friend forever, Yaya.

27. Meeting Hollywood

‘Heya!’

Little Hairy-Harry leapt within his hideout, turning in the direction of the voice. 

‘Who are you?’ 

‘Yaya, who is this?’

‘Nitwit, meet my mate, Hollywood Billy, straight from the US of A, passing through and totally cool. You’ll see.’ 

Little Hairy-Harry was surprised, then charmed, then smiled, because Hollywood Billy did look really rather amusing. He looked a bit like Yaya, but with less hair and some funny physical peculiarities. Most noticeable, was a weird gadget he wore around his waist. 

‘What is that you have around your waist, Mr Billy? I’m quite unfamiliar with it.’ 

Hollywood Billy looked at him gob-smacked, wide-eyed.

  

‘Yo buddy, are you kiddin’ me? That thing here? It’s a camera. I meet loadsa famous hairs on my travels and take pictures of myself with ‘em, as a sooovenir. Morelike to chat up chicks! Know whattah mean? My tricks work smooth with the guuurrls! A recipe for luuuv... Oh, yeah.’  

And Hollywood Billy gave a broad, toothy grin.

26. Going into puberty

After his shower, steaming with the fragrance of verbena, Little Hairy-Harry noticed that, hell’s teeth, but he felt a whole lot better!

‘You see, Yaya, I needed you. I needed to talk to you, to explain things. There have been changes in my life and I’m feeling lost.’

A little tear tricked down his squeaky-clean cheek. This time, leaving no trace behind it.

‘Poor little ding-a-ling! Come here and I’ll give you a hug. Poor thing. It’s not that bad. Your useless parents ought to have explained this all to you, yonks ago. It’s really quite simple, you silly doofus, you’re going through the grotty-spotty years... you’re growing up.’

At that very moment, Little Hairy-Harry  understood that his only family was right there. That the single person he could trust, the one and only he could rely upon, was his friend for life, Yaya.

‘Yayaaa! Don’t leave me, never ever again!’

From Little Hairy-Harry flooded all the tears in his body, and he bent, doubled over, over his dear, sweet friend. His tears flowed down the magnificent sheath of Yaya’s hair, leaving it unaltered in its sheen and colour. It didn’t even begin to frizz.

Just then, he felt the presence of somebody else nearby...

25. Seeing one’s mate again

‘So, silly nitwit, matey-mate. Whazzup?’

Little Hairy-Harry started with astonishment. He knew that voice, that wicked sense of humour. It was... ‘Yaya! Yayaaaaaa!’

He threw himself into the arms of his mate, his very shiny friend, at least, as best he could given the circumstances.

‘Cor blimey, nitwit, you bloody stinkbomb. You’ve grown up. Heck, but you’ve really changed. And ya got one hellofa stink on you. What’s happened to ya?’

Little Hairy-Harry noticed that Yaya was looking a little tight-lipped and was talking through his nose. He had also concluded their effusive reunion and was keeping himself at a fair distance. Yaya had cooled considerably towards him.

‘Oh, I’m so depressed... I’m weary of abso-bloody-everything. How I’ve missed you, my mate. If you only knew how much I’ve missed you!’

Little Hairy-Harry flung his arms wide, to welcome Yaya into them for an embrace, but... nada. Yaya wasn’t budging.

‘Listen, sweets. You take a shower and we’ll get back to things, okay? Sorry, old mate, but for a little hair, you got the honk of all time on ya. Woah! I can’t believe my schnozz.’

Feeling somewhat nettled, Little Hairy-Harry took a shower, grabbing the Verbena Shower Gel he’d ordered online three weeks back. 

24. Fretting

His morning wakings followed on, each one more bizarre than the previous. Little Hairy-Harry had lost his bearings entirely. The more time passed, the hotter under the collar he got. Then the colder. He dozed all day, said bugger it to everything, held slanging matches with his neighbours, and let time spool by in front of the telly. In essence, he needed help. Most particularly, the help of friends.

And of potato crisps...

‘Ah, a beer would wash down well...’

But no, no, and no. Little Hairy-Harry was well-bred and well-mannered and that should be the end of that. Except that… his personal hygiene left a lot to be desired.

‘I don’t give a damn. Nobody knows me. Nobody can see me in my hideout. I’m all alone, minding my bloody fucking business, and nobody is going to bugger around with me.’

He inhaled deeply from his armpits. Then struck by a sudden dizzy spell, considered that perhaps it was time to take a shower.

‘I. Stink.’

A certain manly pride took possession of his little hairless torso.

‘Yup. Fwoah. I really honk.’

23. Discovering a whatsit

Again it was morning. A lonely morning. The kind of morning in which one wonders what will happen next.

Little Hairy-Harry  took out his little pocket mirror and examined his reflection.

‘Aaaaarrg!’

A hair. A teeny-tiny, wispy, puny hair had sprouted on his chin. Impossible! I can’t grow hairs. I am a hair!

His skin was also covered with little black thingies. His complexion, formerly so perfect, so smooth, was now lacking in sheen, utterly void of radiance.

He looked dull, drab and messy.

Little Hairy-Harry took things into hand and after a good, sound purifying scrub, his number one clay masque and a new hydrating masque with oxygen-rich active liposomes, he felt a heck of a lot better. Clean, as it were.

He retrieved his little mirror and examined his tiny hair. Well, now, what to do... epilation? Tweezers? The razor? The laser? A multitude of solutions came to him, but as Top Secret Agent, he would need to select the most avant-garde.

Little Hairy-Harry fell asleep, dreaming about the future of his chin hair.

22. Brimming with emotion

Three days. It was three whole days since Yaya had disappeared. Not a message, not a phone call, nothing. The wasteland. The loneliness of it. Oh, Little Hairy-Harry was desperate, miserable, deep down in the dumps. Despite a pressing need to talk it all through with his shrink, he was keeping his chin up. Tests, the likes of these, he knew were sent to try his resistance. But hell’s teeth, the going was tough!

Furthermore, he had some questions for Yaya. Questions of a personal nature that were no business of anybody else. Of matters that were troublesome, of an... intimate nature.

Well, frankly, to tell the truth, he was having unusual dreams. That was it. And was waking up with a huge idiotic grin on his face, while strictly speaking, he ought to be feeling blue. Little Hairy-Hairy was quite lost. And it is at times like this that one most needs a friend...

‘Yayaaaaa! Where have you gone?!’

Nothing. No response.

A teeny-tiny tear trickled all the way down his little cheek and fell, ker-splat, onto the ground. Followed by another, and then another.

This gave LHH the chance to tidy a bit around his hidey-hole... Is that what tears are good for? Housework? He was not amused. Little Hairy-Harry  vowed solemnly, for the remainder of his days, to turn his back on housework.

He, a refined little bum hair, renounced the military rigour he’d been imposing for weeks prior. After all, looking around, it was evident that he was the one and only making the effort. So there! Harumph.

21. Getting scratched. Again.

Little Hairy-Harry could scarcely believe what was happening to him. What luck! He had a really pleasant, friend, with every hair on his head impeccably conditioned, coiffed, and shiny, who was teaching him heaps of things, who told stories that were passionate, mysterious, and enigmatic. And highly obscure too.

One detail bothered him, nonetheless. The pressure inside him was building up and up and up, to at least as much as... oof! The previous time, it had all been much too much. Just too much for the likes of a little bum hair like him. 

Little Hairy-Harry was concerned about Yaya’s dietary habits. Not that he disapproved of the choice of tomato juice, but the consequences of it put his poor nerves to great test.

‘I’m going to need to treat myself to a spa getaway one of these days. I simply can’t take it any longer,’ he thought.

‘Enough already with this blasted thingumy-whatsit! Heeelp!’

The huge, bizarre thingumy-whatsit dove down towards his hide-out, and scratched and scratched.

The ground was becoming all red and bumpy and Yaya had vanished.

‘Oh, Yaya!’

‘Yeah, yeah. I’m here behind you, you silly nitwit. I think I’m gonna chow further off, thataway. Cause it looks like you’re too hyper-bloody-sensitive for a hair follicle.’

Little Hairy-Harry, fretful, but unable to turn around, simply had to trust Yaya. It was at that exact moment that a missile was fired from the launch pad in the direction of an exquisite, ultramarine blue sky. And a soft, pleasant drizzle cooled the air. 

It dawned on Little Hairy-Harry that he was beginning to tire of Yaya.

20. Seeing things

As usual, by the time Yaya came to the end of his story, he was feeling a little peckish. He had his own, idiosyncratic manner of eating: he stood firmly on the ground while drinking something that looked like tomato juice. Of that, Little Hairy-Harry was convinced, because after each meal Yaya had such a healthy glow. It had to be more than just beta carotene!

At that moment, Little Hairy-Harry was struck by a particular detail. Everywhere that Yaya drank, he left behind a rosy spot which puffed up shortly thereafter and seemed to attract that enormous, bizarre object that had nearly given him a heart attack the other day.

‘Mayday! Mayday! The big thingumy-whatsit is back!’

Little Hairy-Harry bellowed into his little walkie-talkie to alert one of his superiors to the danger. Despite this, time after time, the big thingumy-whatsit disappeared and nobody came to his rescue.

Yaya watched him, taken aback. He wondered if it wasn’t time to hit the road.

‘Hey, who ya talking to, nitwit?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose that, Yaya. It’s top secret and highly confidential.’

19. Getting told stories

Little Hairy-Harry spent hours and hours listening to his friend. He even managed to calm down on the talking front, preferring to listen to Yaya’s accounts of crazy adventures abroad. They were was colourful, amusing and mysterious. He couldn’t catch all the subtleties, but promised himself that he’d look them up anon in his little pocket dictionary (evidently, his little hide-out didn’t accommodate the larger edition).

‘Oh, what does “orgy” mean?’

Yaya raised an eyebrow, stubbed out his cigarette on the ground and a tremor shot through the entire landscape.

‘Well, nothing really, it’s a sorta scrum, kinda like you get in rugby.’

This answer took Little Hairy-Harry no further in his query. He had no idea what rugby was, but he had had the opportunity to taste the salad that went by the same name. 

18. Having a friend

Little Hairy-Harry, living life to the mostest, was playing ‘Stare Me Down’ with his mate and for each round that he lost, got a slap for being the first to blink or laugh. Oh, life was sweet! A brand new world had opened up to him, a world of soft and rough, dry and moist, sticky and… not very fragrant. Never mind. He was touching everything he could lay his hands on, with greater or lesser tactile fortune. But the essence of it all was... discovering things.

‘Say, what’s your name?’

‘My name is Phtirius, but nobody can say it, so my mates call me Yaya. Like, it’s nicer. How about you?’

‘My name is Little Hairy-Harry.’

‘Arrggg, poor you, matey. More and more parents who spend too much time in from of the telly.’

‘What’s the telly?’

‘A big moving image that says stuff which isn’t worth much these days. Apart from some of the American series. Hey, wanna play Jump-Jump?’

Little Hairy-Harry started copying his mate. Except it was no mean feat, given that he was a tad stuck in his hide-out. But his heart was in it, and that was the main thing. 

17. Patting and petting

Little Hairy-Harry didn’t dare meet the gaze of his new mate. He had one wish and one wish only: to disappear, vanish in his hidey-hole and be forgotten about. To add insult to injury, what with all the pressure, his pimple had burst. He felt disfigured and ashamed of the ugly, red thing in the middle of his face. Really, this wasn’t his day.

‘Take it easy, matey. It’s no big deal. Do you want me to let one rip too, to make you feel better?’

‘Woaahhhh!’ The smell made him dizzy.

‘Look, it happens to everybody. It’s actually pretty fun. We could even do a competition. Have you got a ciggie lighter? I wanna show you something really cool.’

Little Hairy-Harry was smiling again, despite himself. This mate of his, he thought, was really rather pleasant. The most wonderful surprise of all, however, was that he found himself now at ground level, his arms free!

Very courteously, he asked if he could pat the marvellous fur coat. And oh, it was soft! What a glorious sensation! Little Hairy-Harry was simply thrilled. Thrilled. 

16. A little chit, a little chat

Little Hairy-Harry was in seventh heaven! At last, he had the opportunity to practise that which was known as ‘The Art of Conversation’. Having found a friend, he certainly planned to make the most of him.

‘Blimey, but for such a little hair, you can talk the hind leg off a donkey!’

Taking that for a compliment, Little Hairy-Harry continued unthwarted.

‘But where do you herald from? Oh, what a marvellous surprise this is. And are you a foreigner, perchance? Who styles your hair for you? Might I pet it, just a little?’

At that, he was reminded again of his frightful situation. His little hands. Still wedged in his hide-out. Little Hairy-Harry decided it was time to flail against the elements of nature, once more. He squeezed his little fists, clenched his little teeth, concentrated like blazes, pushed with all his might and... pooot!

‘Cor blimey! Now I get why it’s so whiffy around here. What the bloody hell do they give you to eat?’

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15. Discovering a friend

‘Hey, whatcha got on your shnozz?’ A voice startled Little Hairy-Harry. This voice was rather different from the others he had heard previously. It was a little nasal and high-pitched, but not in the slightest bit nasty. Extraordinary.

‘Who, if I may ask, are you?’ enquired Little Hairy-Harry, politely. ‘I have not yet had the pleasure of encountering you in the neighbourhood…’

‘Yeah, whatever. I was just swinging by. Is there a decent spot around here to catch a bite at?’

Little Hairy-Harry was absolutely staggered. Never before had he met a hair of this ilk. Instead of being long and narrow, he was short and portly and moved about on six legs, sporting a genuine coat of lustrous fur.

Hairs growing on a hair?

‘This object in front of me,’ thought Little Hairy-Harry, ‘must surely that which is commonly referred to as “a tourist”.’

‘I am deeply sorry that I cannot shake your hand. However, as you may have noticed, I am a little on the petite side and somewhat stuck here in my hide-out. Nonetheless, allow me to wish you a warm  welcome to this admirable region of our country. What kind of conditioner, if I may ask, do you apply to your hair?’

14. Getting scratched

A few days later, Little Hairy-Harry suffered a near heart attack. An enormous and strange object flung itself upon him, out of the blue, à propos of nothing, and scratched him. Scratched him really hard. His little heart nearly burst, his head spun and his nose positively throbbed with the blasted pimple that was growing larger and larger by the day. This assault too was surely a new trial as part of his personal training. 

He resorted to the most drastic of measures, drawing from amongst his drawer of personal possessions a clay face masque. 

13. Feeling off colour

For some time now, Little Hairy-Harry had been feeling ill at ease. Every time a missile was fired, his immediate proximity became covered with a slimy substance that was most offensive to his sensitive nostrils. Being delicate and refined and fully occupied with the quest for the perfect trench coat for his future career, he felt sullied, both inside and out. Things simply could not carry on like this.

He longed for a favourable shower of rain, for the chance to dive into the deep blue water he had caught a glimpse of just the other day. Little Hairy-Harry comforted himself with the thought that this was probably a test for his special status as Top Secret Agent.

One morning, Little Hairy-Harry spotted something ghastly in his little mirror… a pimple on his nose. He refused to let it get him down, however. On the contrary, he felt charged up, invincible, poised for combat.

‘I will survive!’ he sang, puffing up his puny chest. 

12. Making a discovery

At intervals, Little Hairy-Harry suffered the jolting of missiles shooting from the launch pad not far from his hide-out. To his surprise, nobody else seemed to notice them. It was truly bizarre. Or, was their indifference feigned? Hmmm...

His little brain was straining with the sheer effort of thought, so much so it was just about smoking.

All of a sudden, an illumination sparked amidst his diminutive neurons. Yes, he finally got it. All was made known. In all likelihood, he was based at a military station. Yes, that was it! It all added up: the curfew, the noises, the smells, the infantile, vulgar sense of humour of his neighbours, and his memory of the great heart shape, possible a territory occupied by pacifists. Little Hairy-Harry was imbued with a tremendous sense of purpose. He, a tiny, weakling bum hair, was to become, ta-dah… a Secret Agent! 

11. Wearing a neckbrace

Little Hairy-Harry, thus immobilised and daydreaming, pondered the peculiar country he had discovered.

‘A heart-shaped mountain and another in the shape of a megalith? What on earth could it mean?’

He ached to grow up, meet people, make friends, have fun, throw a barbecue. He smiled to himself, wedged into his hidey-hole (as the neckbrace advised by his doctor took up rather a lot of space) and he dreamed up plans for his future.

‘Give us a smile, hey twatface?’            

An immense flash lit up the sky.

Little Hairy-Harry considered how very unfathomable the world about him was.

10. Getting a crick in the neck

Little Hairy-Harry jerked himself back to his original posture, because, in that other direction, the odour was becoming, frankly, quite brutal. He was almost ashamed of having complained previously.

But ‘Ow! Ow! Ow!’ he yelped.

He had pictured seamlessly straightening up his head, but hadn’t quite foreseen putting it back. Pain shot through his little neck. Now whom could he blame? His nose! That sensitive, delicate schnozz of his. Little Hairy-Harry dreamed of it becoming an asset to him one day, a passport to the marvellous world of perfumery.

While he cursed his nose, his perfect nose, he was resolute not to budge as a strategy to tide the pain. 

9. Turning around

Little Hairy-Harry couldn’t take it anymore, not knowing what was going on behind him. His hearing was marvellously acute and his sense of smell even better. It was possibly that little bit too fine. (Just between you and I, he dreamed often of catching a cold.) Yet all his eyes could offer him was the vista of a lovely, pink and gently sloping hillside, on which he, drawn to his full height, was wafting in the breeze.

Unable to wait a moment any longer, he exerted an effort, of a bravado well beyond his years, by which he managed to shift to the right.

‘Oh my heavens! But it’s so pretty…’ he crooned.

By stretching his little head such that his neck vertebrae threatened to rupture, he could see at long last, a gorgeous landscape, pink and undulating, covered with little friends (although little, still much bigger than him), and a funny heart-shaped mountain down below, and yet another, higher one behind him…

‘Ew! Eyew!’ 

8. Snoring

Little Hairy-Harry was having a dream. In it, he was gambolling gaily in a field of cabbages, free and gay as a wild horse. Other little bum hairs threw a coloured ball to him. Beaming with happiness, he tossed it back.

‘Hey, hello?’

The other little hairs smiled, throwing the ball back.

‘Hey YOU!’

His fellows were frolicking gaily and smiling amidst the cabbages.

‘YOOHOO!’

Little Hairy-Harry started awake, suddenly. Abruptly. The shock of it! It appeared he had been snoring. At least, that was what the voice behind him confirmed, in a not very kindly manner.

Little Hairy-Harry made a mental note of it, and set about planning better for his next siesta, i.e. to tape himself whilst snoozing. He might be petite with impeccable manners, but he would be neither mocked nor taken for an imbecile. Oh, no. 

7. Having a siesta

These discoveries, the noises, the tart smell (what with Little Hairy-Harry being so fussy), his cracking headache, the physical exertion and the extreme use of his brain had all exhausted him thoroughly. In dire need of rest and recuperation, he decided to take a nap.

That was all very well, but how? In what position? If you’ve got your nose to the ground, taking a rest isn’t the straightforward thing it ought to be.

So he gave it another go. He squeezed his little fists, clenched his teeth, concentrated with all his might, pushed like a lunatic, and keeping his ears pricked... pffffffttttt!

Nobody had heard a thing! Little Hairy-Harry had thus mastered the matter of ejecting himself with the utmost discretion, silently but violently. With a sigh of relief, he laid his head on the rim of his hidey-hole and fell into a blissful sleep.

6. Getting a migraine

Who could’ve imagined Little Hairy-Harry would be so very sensitive, olfactorally speaking? Oh, that would be just his luck. He knocked back an aspirin and prayed with all his might, ‘Damnation! I really hope I’m going to get used to this. Because if I don’t, crikey Moses, I’m going to be in deep trouble…’

Within a few moments, he started feeling better. More or less. Although an unpleasantly burny sensation was stirring in his stomach.

‘Hey, twatface. You have to take an aspirin with water, doncha know?’

Little Hairy-Harry thanked the voice warmly, apologising for his inability to turn around to face his conversant. He drank a large glass of water and immediately started feeling a whole lot better.

5. Trying out a new nose

Little Hairy-Harry was stuck, nose to the ground. Released from his hidey-hole, yet still stuck to the ground. One can’t have it all, right? He realised pretty swiftly that a 360-degree perspective would not be on the cards just yet. So, as a consolation, he tested his nose. He sniffed.

There was a smell. Indeed, a very tangy, quite whiffy smell. Although Little Hairy-Harry had very little in the way of scents to compare it to, for a beginner baby bum hair, this one was pretty darn bracing. 

4. Taking a stab

Little Hairy-Harry wanted to broaden his horizons. As this was proving impossible in his current circumstances, he gathered all his strength to push himself out. He squeezed his little fists, clenched his little teeth, pushed like a lunatic and, turning as red as a beetroot... poooot! A moment of silence was followed by gales of derisive laughter from those around him. He felt miserable, humiliated. A tiny victory comforted him, however, for he had acquired a nose.