The Hairy Oyd's house of hair A Christmas poem by Ian PICKERING The Hairy Oyd woke up one day to find his hair had gone away Gone from his head, his face, his armpits None on his leg, chests, arms or naughty bits: head to toe, all smooth as silk, just hairless skin of ghost white milk. He'd only been up for a couple of minutes but already his day was stressed past the limit. Sadly that's not even half of the tale; things that go wrong can get worse without fail. The Hairy Oyd washed and dressed and went out to learn what his hair-free new look was about but closing the door he glanced up and gave shout: "There's a full head of hair on the roof of my house." Alarmed and in panic, he hurried away to consult with his doctor and see what he'd say, but the doctor could find nothing physically wrong; no medical clue why his hair was all gone, and said: "I'm afraid there's not much I can do." The Hairy Oyd nodded, after all, it was true. And The Hairy Oyd sat there and listened, though, clearly, the doctor was puzzled and clutching for theories. "Yes," he said sadly, "this case is beyond me, but medicine can't explain all the world's mysteries. It's a pure act of God or a natural disaster like earthquakes, volcanoes and floods - with more laughter. At least you're alive, have a house, car and money Your problem's not tragic just tragically funny. Hair, who cares, you can get by without. But may I suggest that you mow your house?" The Hairy Oyd sighed, it was one of those jokes that life likes to play on us ordinary folks and so he went home, where things had turned weird: his house was now sporting a bushy, black beard; even the front door was follicly blooming but at least it was outside, so Oyd was assuming. But who should he contact to sort this all out - a hairdressing, gardening giant, no doubt! The beard, at the least needs, a good trimming back and the hair on the rooftop, it looks like a thatch. The Hairy Oyd, after lunch, got on the case of tidying up his new hairy house face. He sheared off the beard and he poisoned the roots and mowed all the hair on both sides of the roof, but as fast as he worked, and he worked very hard, for each inch he cut off, it grew back a yard. In fact, when it got much too dark to avoid the taste of defeat all but licked Hairy Oyd. He climbed down his ladder and shuffled inside with an air of acceptance and half-swallowed pride. The Hairy Oyd washed, cleaned his teeth and slept tight, vowing tomorrow to put his house right. A whole brand new day just to get things in order but sadly he knew not what he was in store for. All through the long night his house's hair grew only now it was growing inside the house too: the walls and the carpets were all sprouting hair and so were the ceilings, the cupboards and stairs; And the trouble with great lengths of hair in your housing is pretty soon all of your home needs delousing. When Hairy Oyd woke up, he spoke to the council, who slowly agreed to check out what was doubtful: "A house growing hair, well it just couldn't be, but we'll send a man round straightaway just to see." The man, far from easing Oyd's growing frustration, said: "Look on the bright side, it's good insulation. I'm sorry I really can't help. On the whole, I think your best option's to call Pest Control." A young man arrived but soon after professed: "I don't believe outbreaks of hair count as pests." The Hairy Oyd slumped in his full house of hair, by now it was literally everywhere; not just the house but the fixtures and fittings, furniture, ornaments - all needed clipping. The bath, the sink, the shower, the toilet, his clothes, his food, hairy panhobs to boil it, his fridge, his freezer, his washer, his drier, his radiators, even his antique coal fire, and nothing would work, help retreat the attack, not even top-strength, industrial Immac. Of course, as we all know, people survive and The Hairy Oyd slowly got used, over time, to the hair of his house, both inside and out, adjusting just fine; and by word of mouth the fame of his home soon had spread far and wide and soon Hairy Oyd was just brimming with pride. At Christmas he won the town's festive first prize for dyeing the hair and beard white, painting eyes and a smile on the windows and making it like Santa Claus was in town, to the children's delight. And on Christmas Day, in jolly mood, he opened his gifts and prepared the food. The gifts, of course, were hairy by noon, and the meal was similarly ruined too soon But by now Hairy Oyd was well used to this and blew it all off like a Christmas kiss. People can always learn how to cope, there's nothing as hopeless as them without hope. So The Hairy Oyd sat and watched hairy TV with a hot bowl of hairy leg soup on his knee.