It's Disney's. It's all Disney's.

Note: please forgive me if I don't portray OCD very well, I have no experience with it.

I lug a basin of water into a stall, surveying the hubbub around me. People washing, dressing, shaving, talking, everyone in a good mood. Most of them just wash under the pump, but I'm different than them in that way. I like my privacy. So I pump my own water and wash where I'm alone.

I can hear Blink and Snoddy in the middle of a heated discussion on last week's headlines. Someone bashes on the door of several stalls, including mine, before finding an empty one. With a sigh, I nerve myself and dunk my head. The water is freezing. I finish up as quickly as I can.

Leaving the water, I steal a towel off of Skittery and go searching for my shirt. Itey is using it to dry himself. I grab it from him, put it on, and scramble for a place in front of the mirror. I'm about as ready as I can be, but my hair isn't quite dry. I rub it vigorously with the towel, retreating to a corner to avoid Skitt as he walks by, searching for it.

A few minutes later, I run a hand through my hair- it's perfectly dry. But what if there's one small, hidden patch that's still damp? I can't go outside with wet hair.

Suddenly, it is my mother looking out at me from the mirror. Her eyes are my eyes, and her hair hangs loose and wet, with only a trace of its normal waves. I can remember her hand on my head, her smile, her wave from the street, and her wet hair swinging out behind her as she turned and the door swung shut.

That was the last time I saw her.

I continue rubbing anxiously at my head. I cannot go out with wet hair, I cannot! She always told me I'd catch a cold, or something worse. I inspect myself in the mirror, searching for that one wet spot I know is there somewhere. Even if it is just one hair, I can't go out. Rubbing at it is getting uncomfortable. I pull aside the next newsie I see- Blink.

"Kid, is my hair wet? At all? Anywhere?"

He looks at me like I belong in some institute, but obliges and inspects my bent head.

"Not one single hair," he pronounces, and heads off to find a comb.

I don't trust that. I can't. What if I believed him, and left for the Distribution Center, and he was wrong?

I keep on drying. I'm getting a few strange looks. I discard the towel I'm using, thinking that maybe it's wet, and use the corner of a curtain instead. Specs walks by, and I stop him, asking the same thing that I did of Blink. He looks at me strangely, assures me that my hair is fine, and hurries away.

The worst part is, deep inside, I know that my hair is perfectly dry. I know that it doesn't matter if it was wet. I know that wet hair never killed anyone, and it's not about to kill me. But I can't stop. I can't bear to think of going out with a wet head. I keep drying and drying and drying, and I know there's something wrong. I wish I could just leave, regardless of my hair, like everyone else.

I drop the curtain and pick up the towel again.

If you're crazy and you know it……………