By Ilana Lindsey
While I slithered out of my mother’s body with a full head of hair, the piranha infestation didn’t happen until I was five. By then my hair—basic mousy brown— hung down my back, long enough to swing as I walked. The fish appeared after a visit to the climate change exhibit at the Science Museum, clinging to the tail-ends of my curls with their needly teeth. Mum tried to comb them out; they did not let go. Fortunately, hair piranhas prefer the crispy-fried dregs at the ends of hair. As long as I didn’t fuss and risk getting a finger nipped, I was fine.
Children called me Goldilocks in primary school, although hair piranhas look nothing like goldfish. I spent time alone. Taught myself to read early. By secondary school, I’d learned to enjoy solitude and concentrated on my studies. I aimed to become a micropalaeontologist. If I tied my hair back with a small rope, the fish wouldn’t interfere when I stared down a microscope. I ended up with ten GCSEs and four A-Levels—all A stars*—and offers from seven different universities. I chose Ludwig Maximilian and spent the summer learning German.
While Munich was enriching, the German lack of reserve took me aback. Aside from occasional harassment from coarser types, British folk treated the fish like a food stain or off-putting birthmark. The Germans wanted to discuss. How long had I had the fish? Did I find them hard to manage? Why didn’t I get rid of them?
(I couldn’t, of course. They’ll just leap back on if you cut them off. And the shorter your hair, the closer they are to your skull. The only solution is to keep one’s hair long, to put as much distance as possible between the fish and your brain.)
I couldn’t take it. I dropped out of Ludwig Maximilian. I live with the bloody fish; I don’t want to spend every second of the day justifying them. I moved back to London and got a job in a pet shop. It’s been tolerable. The customers are annoying, but animals know how to mind their own business.
I never married. Never had children. I would have liked to try both, but it wasn’t to be. I even installed the Hook-Up app, thinking I’d have more luck with someone who understood. Weird how we all hate each other. Dates would either obsess over their own hair piranhas or fall into hysterics at the slightest mention. Really off-putting people. I’m still alone.
Hair thins as one ages. Mine is now shoulder length; it won’t grow longer. The fish’s tiny choppers snap beneath my ears. They’re drawing closer to my head and they’ll reach it one day. Their raison d’être is to crack through your skull and eat your brain. I’ve got five years, maybe ten. I’ll probably self-euthanise before things get too advanced. Wouldn’t want to give the fuckers the satisfaction of reaching their goal.
losing our grip on purpose 