Once upon a time there was a girl who was born with the purest golden locks anyone had ever seen. She lived in a rich, beautiful castle, with acres and acres of green grass all around. Her mother, a vain and difficult woman, was envious of her daughter's gold tresses. So much so that, one night, as the girl lay sleeping in her narrow bed, her mother crept up beside the pillow and snipped off the golden curls, strand by strand, and sold them for money at the market the next day.

Sharlene turns the page anxiously, one finger licking the candy-smooth paper, the long grass in the yard tickling her ankles. Fairy tales are so much better than the sharpness of everyday life. She prefers the clouds moving aimlessly above her head, a rainbow reflected in their pillowy whiteness. She takes comfort in the illustrations of rough stone castles and golden-haired princesses, prefers fuzziness to concrete detail. She reads them over and over until her lips move effortlessly as she sits in front of the mirror, pulling a brush through her pale hair. She is hypnotized by the sound of her own voice, her reflection illuminating the glass. She sighs, winding a lock around her index finger, then places the tip in her mouth, sucking greedily. Her hair tastes of soap and dirt, the cloying, chalky taste of flowers and dust.