Citronella (Part 1)  

Citronella leaned over the balcony and sighed, staring down at the village parti-gras. Before, she’d been content to lean on the iron parapet, separate from the mad goings-on below. Before, she’d been satisfied with her mother’s witchy warnings of the dangers of joining the sweaty rabble. Before, she’d felt empowered by her choice of who she’d let climb her long, golden braid to the top floor. She’d lived there for as long as she could remember. 
***             

Because her tower and terrace sat back from the adjoining buildings, the only way up or down was by braid. The windows below that suggested floors that suggested a stairway, in no way suggested a door to the rest of the world outside.

The braid, so carefully tended by Mother with brush and herb and oil, became healthy and quite heavy. As happens in all true stories, Mother’s arthritis become so severe she could no longer care for her daughter’s hair, and no longer climb the braid. Mother stayed with daughter 24-7. As Citronella’s labors increased, her hair began to take up more and more room. Cutting had never been an option.

When Citronella asked Mother how food and supplies continued to show up, the old woman would cackle and wink and tell her it was the fairies.

And so, Citronella contentedly sat on her terrace in the sun, or by the picture windows, low fire in the grate behind her, and worked up various patterns of braid as the world clamored by.    

Citronella (Part 2)

Sometimes real adventures only begin with an ending, and this was certainly true for Citronella.

With the continued growth of her well-tended hair, navigating the small terrace apartment became difficult. The girl, though she became stronger, also became exhausted. No longer could she both carry her mother to the chair by the window, and drag and arrange her coils of hair behind them.

Mother became despondent. Though the fairies still brought them food, the woman would not eat, instead remaining in bed, gazing longingly at the scant sunlight that made its way around the mountain of hair, moving her cracked lips as if to say “What have I done?”

Of course and eventually, Mother died, leaving Citronella with piles of hair and a fierce longing for some company, any company. And then the fairies took her mother’s body some time in the night, and stopped coming as often.

Citronella realized she needed more. She was hungry. Hungry for food, hungry for the whispered warmth of her mother’s conversation, hungry for the light presence of her mother’s frail hands in her braid.

She had never been entirely alone before.

Citronella (Part 3)

Citronella leaned on the tower’s parapet, head in hand, as the parti-gras revelers paraded and coiled below, singing and shouting to one another. The heady scent of brazier meat and red wine wafted up in the cool evening air. For the first time in her life, Citronella felt trapped and despairing.

Angrily, she delivered a mighty shove on her golden braid. Groaning, the parapet around the terrace snapped and collapsed under its weight. She watched in horror as it picked up speed and bumped and slithered over the edge. Surely the revelers would be crushed by its weight? Surely she would land on top of the mess of carnage, a final tug that would end all their lives?

But just as suddenly, the braid slowed and stopped its tumble. The party was silenced. A length of braid, three men long, had caught up on the bedpost of the queen bed Citronella and Mother had shared, as well as the kitchen table for two that had served them so well, for so many years. The two pieces of furniture had become securely wedged in the broken railing.

The revelry began once more with cries of delight as the partygoers attempted to dance in the shiny golden mess that was Citronella’s tresses gone to ground.

A voice rose up from below “Citronella! Citronella let down her golden hair!”  

For the first time in a very long time, Citronella began to laugh, and looked for a sharp pair of scissors to free herself.       

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2024)

Many thanks to Jenne Gray and C.E. Ayr for their photo prompt, The Unicorn Challenge. (08/02/2024). No more than 250 words in length. (For each part, lol!)