“But we just did that!”
The prince cleared his throat again. “Let down your fair hair!”
“Oh, fine!”
The prince looked nervously over his shoulder. If the witch came back now, he was toast. Figuratively. Or maybe even literally, if she was the turn-unfortunate-princes-into-toast kind of witch. He had never heard of that kind, but you never knew with witches.
The hair slid to a halt in front of him and he grabbed hold of it, still looking back toward the woods.
“Yuck,” he said, frowning. Whatever product Rapunzel used in her hair, it was … not working. The hair was slippery, almost slimy. So smooth he had a hard time holding tight. And the section beneath his hands had a huge, misshapen lump.
Well! He couldn’t judge her. After all, she’d been imprisoned in a tower. She probably just needed a good shampoo or two. Or fifty. He began climbing up the hair, one slippery, icky, slicky handhold at a time. The hair shifted and wriggled under his fingers. He climbed faster, looking straight up at the window.
Finally, gasping for breath, he heaved himself over the sill and tumbled into the room. It was dark after the brilliant sunshine outside. He couldn’t see much as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. He wiped his hands on his trousers, hoping the hair-feeling would go away soon. Touching his lucky matches for courage, he threw back his shoulders and stood with his feet apart and his fists on his hips.
“I’m here to—”
“Augh!” Rapunzel screamed.
The prince held up his hands, smiling his most princely smile. But he had been locked away for a long time, so it looked less princely and more a-strange-man-just-climbed-in-your-window-and-you-should-probably-find-a-weapon-ly. “Never fear! I’m here to save you! Quick, before the witch comes back.”
“What witch?”
“You know. Black dress. Fair complexion. Mean.”
“That’s my stepmother, you jerk. She’s not a witch!”
The prince frowned. “Oh. Well. But she has you trapped in this tower!”
“I’m not trapped.”
Maybe she was under a spell. So, not a toast-turning witch. A spell-casting witch. Even worse. Unless you really hate crumbs on your fingers, in which case the first kind would be worse. “Yes, you are trapped! The only way up or down is by climbing your hair, and you can’t very well climb your own hair, now, can you?”
Rapunzel spoke very slowly, like the prince was a small child. “There is a door.”
The prince laughed. She was definitely under a spell! Oh, what stories they would tell their friends after he finished rescuing her and they ran away together! “There’s no door! There’s only that window.”
Rapunzel pointed to the other side of the round room. The prince’s eyes were finally adjusting to the dim light inside. He saw that a set of stairs led down.
“But what good are stairs if there is no door?” he asked.
Rapunzel threw her hands up in the air, huffing in exasperation. (Exasperation is what you feel when you go to get your favorite cereal out of the pantry and someone put the box back inside already empty. Well, maybe you feel rage then. I certainly do.) “Did you bother walking around to the other side of the tower?”
“Of course I—” The prince stopped, frowning. He hadn’t, had he? (No, he didn’t. You would remember, because you just read that part.) “I assumed because of your hair, that—” He stopped again, frowning even frowninglier. Because now that his eyes had adjusted, he saw that Rapunzel did not quite match what he had imagined.
She was tall and round, much like the tower she lived in. Only she was not made of rocks. Few people are.
She was wearing lots of black eyeliner—which accented the killer glare she was giving the prince. Her clothes were black, her fingernails were black, her combat boots were black, and her Mohawk was black, too.
Her Mohawk. Which was definitely not a fair length of hair stretching all the way to the ground. “Where is your fair hair?” the prince whispered. A prickle of goose bumps rose on the back of his neck.
“Right here.” Rapunzel pointed toward the window. She started hauling up coil after coil after coil. The coils moved on their own as she piled them gently on the floor, stopping a couple times to pat them. “You poor dear,” she cooed. “Did the mean man climb up you?”
“That’s not hair.” The prince backed slowly away.
“Yes, it is! This is my fair hair.”
“That is not hair!”