A Roll of Hair Carpet

We each got our own bedroom. We drew lots to make the process fair. Gwen got the big room at the front. I got the small single at the back and Mary, who we’d found in the classifieds, ended up with the attic room, which was a decent size, but hopelessly sloped on either side. “Is everyone ok with their rooms?” asked Gwen. It was obvious she felt a little mortified about drawing the best room by miles, but fair’s fair and someone was always going to end up with the tiny room. “I honestly don’t mind,” I said. “As long as I’ve got room to sleep and a wardrobe to hang up my frocks. I don’t need much room. There’s plenty of space in the lounge.”

We shared the lounge, the kitchen and a tiny bathroom. There was ample space for the three of us, though on those evenings when we had pals round, the flat did feel like a bit of a squeeze. The lounge was roomy enough when we first moved in but as it began to fill up with the bits and bobs Gwen found at the market and the things Mary’s mother sent from home, it began to look less chic and minimalist and more like an explosion in an antique store. Gwen was an awful one for vintage paintings. Every wall was soon covered in scenic oils and watercolours of the coast. Mary’s mother gave us the lend of a bureau, a coffee table and two standard lamps. They did not match the chesterfield suite though we both lied and pretended they did. On our third weekend in the flat, Mary went back to Bristol on the train and returned on Sunday evening with a decent sized carpet rolled up like a cigar, under her arm.

“I had this in my bedroom at home,” she said. “I thought it would go well in the lounge.” We shifted the borrowed coffee table to make room. Gwen and I stood back in the doorway whilst Mary hunkered down and unrolled it slowly. Once fully revealed none of us spoke. Neither Gwen nor I could think what to say. It was the ugliest carpet we’d ever seen. It appeared to be made from human hair. Mary mistook our silence for reverent awe. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, smoothing out some wayward tendrils. “You want to take your shoes off and feel how nice it is under your bare feet.” I cannot speak for Gwen, but the last thing I myself wanted to do, was to feel the horrible hairy carpet, slinking around beneath my naked skin. We did not know Mary well enough to volunteer our honest opinion or ask exactly what the carpet was made of. We muttered something about essays to finish and retreated to our separate rooms, hoping the carpet might be of the magic variety and inclined to vanish rapidly.

The carpet did not vanish. Quite the opposite, in fact. As our first term at college proceeded, the carpet seemed to expand until the entire lounge floor was covered in what looked like a lawn of shaggy human hair. Whilst Mary was out at her keep fit class, Gwen and I investigated, on our hands and knees with magnifying glasses. It was a relief to discover the carpet was not actually alive and growing although did seem to have been added to. If you looked closely at the colour and texture, it was quite obvious that the hair had originated from multiple different heads.

It was around this time that Gwen discovered her hairbrush and comb were being plucked clean on a regular basis. She encouraged me to check my own styling devices and sure enough, they’d also been plundered. Armed with this evidence, we corned our flatmate on the sofa and demanded she explain herself. Mary was not embarrassed in the slightest. She seemed to think it completely normal. Her sister had a similar carpet. Her mother had made one for her bottom drawer. “It helps me to remember all the people who’ve been a part of my life,” she said. “I weave their hair into my carpet and every time I step on it, think about them and wish them well.” It was hard to know how to reply to this. I was in the midst of forming a tactful response -something which would say how much I respected Mary’s traditions yet had some hygienical concerns- when Gwen spoke for me. “That’s really weird,” she said. “I don’t want our flat decorated with other people’s hair.”

What followed began as a reasonably polite exchange, then escalated into raised voices and ended with fists and much hair pulling. I was keeping my eye on Mary, though obviously rooting for Gwen. She was clearly in her element. Every time she got a good handful, she’d slip into her cardigan pocket, ready to add to the carpet later. When things calmed down, we turfed Mary out and got a nice normal flat mate called Leanne. The last time we heard about Mary she was living over a corner shop and finishing her degree part time. Weekends and Thursdays she had a part time job, shampooing the ladies in a local hairdresser. It sounded as if Mary was flourishing. We surmised her carpet was fairing equally well.

Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1963 novel, The Clocks