Bartholomew “Barty” Butterfield was losing his hair. Not slowly, gracefully receding at the temples like a distinguished gentleman—no, Barty’s hair was staging a full-scale retreat. It was a rout, a panicked exodus from his scalp, leaving behind a desolate landscape resembling a poorly maintained putting green.
His family doctor, a kindly woman named Dr. McMillan, had suggested a variety of treatments, all involving suspiciously-smelling lotions and tiny, ineffective combs. Barty’s attempts to follow her advice involved more accidental eye-watering than hair growth. He even tried the “stress-reduction techniques” she’d recommended, which mostly involved him staring blankly at a wall while muttering, “This is all just…hair.”
Discouraged, Barty confided in his friend, Nigel, a man whose own impressive mane seemed to defy the laws of physics and possibly gravity. “Nigel,” Barty wailed, clutching a handful of his dwindling locks, “I’m going bald! My hairline is conducting a symphony of despair!”
Nigel, a connoisseur of unusual solutions to life’s problems (his collection of novelty socks alone was legendary), chuckled. “Barty, old boy! You need to see Madame Evangeline. She’s a… *specialist*.”
Madame Evangeline’s salon was located above a taxidermist’s, which should have been Barty’s first warning sign. The air smelled strongly of lavender and something vaguely resembling formaldehyde. Madame Evangeline herself was a striking woman with a hairstyle that defied description (and possibly the laws of physics, too). She wore a flowing purple robe and gazed at Barty with an unnerving intensity.
“Ah, Bartholomew,” she crooned, her voice like melting butter mixed with gravel. “Your aura screams… follicle deficiency!”
She led him to a chair that creaked ominously and examined his scalp with a magnifying glass that looked suspiciously like a piece of antique medical equipment. Then she announced her treatment plan.
“We shall use the ancient technique of… Hairy-fication!” she declared, producing a small, rather dusty, hamster wheel.
Barty stared at her, utterly bewildered. “A… hamster wheel?”
“Precisely!” Madame Evangeline declared. “The hamsters, Bartholomew, they hold the key! Their tiny, energetic paws will stimulate your follicles, revitalizing your hair growth!”
She produced a cage containing three rather unimpressed-looking hamsters. She carefully placed the cage on top of Barty’s head and started the hamster wheel. The hamsters, initially confused, promptly began running, creating a surprisingly loud whirring sound.
Barty sat there, a hamster-powered whirligig atop his head, feeling vaguely like a bizarre, furry, mechanical top.
The treatment lasted a full hour. Afterwards, Barty was dizzy, his scalp felt slightly irritated, and he had three tiny hamster droppings in his hair. But… there was something else. Something… new.
He ran to a mirror. He saw it. A single, tiny hair. One glorious, magnificent, new hair.
Barty stared at it, awestruck. He then looked closer. Upon closer inspection, it seemed to be attached to one of the hamsters that had mysteriously escaped its cage.
