It was a Thursday morning in late spring, and the sunshine, startled and drowsy from its full eight months of slumber, set to splay upon our sitting-room at 221B Baker Street. The warmth was pleasant, and we sat, my friend and I, at the small table on which our breakfast had been laid, and eaten, and set aside. I turned the pages of The Times, in hopes of some amusing article to read. I scratched my head. And scratched again. The itch did not abate. A fresh itch sprang up in another spot, behind an ear. I scratched.

"My dear Watson," said Sherlock Holmes, "if you have suffered a flea infestation, then I must beg you to at least have the decency to admit to it."

"I do not have fleas," I replied. "It is my hair that is the problem. It is too long, and it is tickling. It is worse now with this sunshine."

My friend lit his pipe. He leaned back fully in his chair and scrutinised me as an eagle might its prey.

"Ah. Well. You know, I could-" he began.

I knew just what he was going to suggest before the sentence had yet left his lips. "No, thank you Holmes."

"How could you possibly know what I was going to say?" he complained.

"I applied your own methods," I chuckled. "I don't want you trimming my hair. Not after the last time."

"Go back to that silly fellow, then. The one on Oxford Street. The one with the gammy leg and the mutton-chop whiskers. It's no wonder you like him."

Now I glared at my impossible friend. "I just might do that, Holmes," I said. "This very afternoon, in fact."

I found myself annoyed with Holmes – a familiar occurrence – and I raked a hand across my head in agitation. The tufts each made a break for freedom from the furrows of the comb. They landed every which way and at right angles to my crown.

"Your silly, floppy hair," said Holmes. He was enjoying himself now.

"Yes, I know."

"If you happen to go out into the street, you'll be mistaken for an Old English Sheepdog, and you'll be locked up as a stray in the Battersea pound."

"At least not before giving you a thorough mauling," I retorted, and I stood up from my chair. Holmes watched me as I opened our bay window for whatever breeze it might allow. I inhaled the morning air, so fresh and pleasant.

"You'll let all the flies of London in," said he.

I sighed. "Holmes, please."

"That is, if they can get past your hair," Holmes continued. He giggled. "See, you've proven useful after all. You're cheaper than fly paper. Now just stand in that spot for the rest of the day."

I shut the window firmly. I smoothed my hair down once again, as it had indeed been blown awry. Turning crossly to face my friend, I observed the change upon his face; a subtle change at first, and then not quite so.

"What?" I enquired, confused. "What is it? Do I have jam on my chin?" I rubbed with a finger.

"No," said Holmes. "There is no jam." He scowled as I began to move away. "Stop!"

I froze. Something very terrible must obviously be happening. "What?" I whispered, fair alarmed. "Is there a spider in my hair?"

Holmes leapt up and came towards me. He set himself, a scant few inches left between us. His scowl intensified.

"You... have a little curl," said he.

I blinked.

"A little... curl?"

"Yes. No, don't touch it. Don't move."

If there were two things that I wanted more than anything to do, then the first was to touch the curl, and the second was to move – and as quickly as I could – away from this maniac in front of me.

"What curl?" I pleaded. "And why can't I move? I don't understand, Holmes!"

Holmes jabbed at my forehead, and it took every nerve that I had not to cower.

"THIS CURL," he boomed. His eyes narrowed. "It just appeared," he explained. "When you ruffled your hair."

"Oh," I said. "I see." I raised my hand nervously and patted the curl. It seemed blissfully unaware of the fuss it was causing its anxious owner. "I am dreadfully sorry, Holmes. I, er..." I hesitated. "Er, is there anything wrong with the curl?"

What a ridiculous question to have to ask of anyone at ten o'clock in the morning. Holmes appeared as surprised to hear it as I myself was to even utter it.

"There is nothing wrong with the curl," my friend said slowly. "I like it. It's nice."

"Oh," I said, again. "I see." I picked up a serving spoon from the breakfast table, and peered into the back of it. The curl peered back from my reflection, mute and passive.

I set the spoon back on the table. I looked up at Holmes. "Should I comb it?" Suddenly, I was eight years old again, an unsure naȉf in an uncertain world.

"No!" said Holmes. "No, no, no, no, no."

"I feel a little silly," I said, "with a curl in the middle of my forehead like this."

"You mustn't go to the barber," said Holmes with finality. "You must grow your hair. I want to see what happens next."

"You wouldn't like me in pigtails, I'm sure," I replied. "Holmes, you are being ridiculous."

My friend looked sad. He shuffled sideways to the sofa and sat down. He set his elbows on his knees and cupped his chin. He observed me solemnly.

"Please don't sulk."

A prolonged, lugubrious huff. "I'm not sulking." A pause, and a sniff. "I'm upset."

I sat down next to him on the sofa. He burrowed away, but I pulled him around so we were facing each other. His eyes went straight to my curl. I took a deep breath. I remembered all of his obsessions in the past: the persian slippers, the clockwork monkeys, and six-foot snow angels in winter. I had to remind myself of the fact that this was just another idée fixe.

"Holmes," I said. "I absolutely cannot grow my hair. I must go to the barber, or I shall go mad. So what can we do?"

Holmes thought about this for a minute or two. At length, a smile came to his face.

"You must give me the curl," he declared.

I hadn't expected that.

"You... want the curl?"

He nodded energetically.

"But what will you do with it?"

He shrugged.

"Holmes, you are really very strange."

My friend tutted with impatience. "Yes, yes, but you already KNOW that. Everybody knows it, because you will insist on writing up those silly stories of yours. I don't know why you always seem so surprised about everything."

I processed this with some great effort. Holmes produced a pair of nail scissors from his pocket with a fine flourish. "Give me it," he said.

"Right now?" I started to panic. I was not sure if I was quite ready to relinquish my curl.

"Please."

I held still as my friend took a quick and neat snip. He exhaled in deep triumph, and between his index and second finger held my severed curl aloft.

"I will need to tie the cut end with a ribbon," said Sherlock Holmes. "Else it will fall apart." He looked at me sideways. "Do you have a colour preference?"

"It is your curl now," I replied, vaguely aware that this was the oddest conversation I had yet had with my odd friend. "So whatever colour you prefer." I thought for a second. "But not pink."

He nodded, and darted away to his room, as I headed off in another direction to have my hair trimmed more correctly. I never did see my curl again. Sometimes I wonder what became of it, where it is kept, and what colour ribbon now complements it, but I should not dare to ask my eccentric friend directly, for he would only say that I am being strange, as usual.