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The day Vince first met Charlie hadn’t started out in a particularly magical way. He’d only been a little tacka, scrawny and pale with a half smile half scowl twisted on to a face that his gran always insisted he would grow in to…
The day before that day he’d been pushed, practically run in to from behind, as he’d stood in the concrete playground, admiring his latest chalk drawing creation. He liked to imagine to himself that one day he’d grow up to be like Bert from Mary Poppins, drawing fantasy worlds on the pavement that he could jump in to at will, changing his look and his job on any given day to suit his mood, singing and dancing and not caring about things like grocery shopping or finding a place to live or where he’d sleep for the night. He liked to imagine a world where he didn’t have to worry about bullies pushing him down and covering him in chalk smears and bloody grazes. Even if that seemed more far fetched than dancing penguins and chalk-drawn landscapes.
Vince didn’t bother turning ‘round or trying to confront them. He’d done it once, thanks to the bad advice from a well-meaning grown-up who said that bullies would back down once confronted. They hadn’t backed down. They’d broken Vince’s nose. So now Vince kept his head down, hidden under his hair. He could tell which gang of unruly pre-teens had done the kicking; he recognised their laughs, like a band of tone deaf donkeys.
Vince had been hopeful that they’d leave him be once they’d pushed him down and ruined his art, but one of them at least had seemed disappointed in his lack of reaction. He spat a few vicious names, let loose a few kicks, before scoffing and declaring Vince a waste of time and energy.
Vince didn’t fight back but he didn’t cry either. Vince never cried, not where anyone could see. Vince liked to sing and dance and play dress-ups with plastic tiaras and tacky, pound store, make-up and silky fabrics from his gran’s sewing box, but he knew better than to show the kind of weakness that crying implied. Not where anyone else could see. Never mind where anyone could see.
Even when he heard the sound of the incoming lugie, and felt it splat, hard, against his scalp, Vince didn’t let a tear drop, no matter how gross it felt. He hunched his shoulders a little more, sure, anticipating the half hearted kicks that came his way, along with the jeering comments and threats, but that was all. The bullies moved on, they always did. There were toddlers by the swings to harass after all.
But once he’d run home and locked himself in the dingy bathroom shared by all the tenants on his gran’s floor, Vince let the tears roll down. There, looking back at him in the reflection of the cracked mirror, was an enormous wad of bright pink Hubba Bubba bubblegum. It was matted in to his hair, his beautiful hair, which he had worked so hard to look after. It had been part of the agreement with his gran, that if he wanted to keep his hair long then he had to prove that he could keep it nice, and not like the “rat’s nest” he’d had when he’d first come to live with her from the jungles of India.
He’d brushed it every morning and night and had saved his pocket money for the sweet smelling detangler spray the chemist sold, and he had been so proud of it. And now it was ruined. And when the bullies saw him next they would know that they’d won, once and for all, just by looking at the chunk of hair missing from Vince’s poor head.
Vince was vaguely aware that there were other ways, odd ways, of removing gum, but he didn’t fancy putting peanut butter in his hair, or any other kind of condiment, and he needed to get it dealt with now, before anyone else saw him. The only thing that made his cheeks burn with shame more than the thought of having a chunk of hair missing was the idea of being seen by anyone with a lump of half chewed, slimy, bubblegum sticking out from his head. He needed to be a big boy and solve this problem.
The scissors that lived in the bathroom technically belonged to the man down the hall, and while under normal circumstances Vince knew he wasn’t supposed to touch things that didn’t belong to him, he figured that in emergencies those rules didn’t apply. Besides, he’d often helped the old man with his groceries and had brought up his mail on more than one occasion, so it was probably ok to borrow the scissors and just leave them where he’d found them. No one had to know.
Bottom lip quivering and fingers barely able to manoeuvre the heavy metal shears, Vince faced the mirror, held out the offending hunk of hair, and cut.
It was like cutting off a chunk of his own soul, at least to his little child mind, and Vince couldn’t bear to look at it once the deed was done. He also couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else seeing it, which meant it couldn’t just go in the bathroom’s bin. Too many people used the bathroom and they might see and ask questions and Vince knew he wouldn’t be able to answer those questions well enough to satisfy a grown-up. He never could. Grown-ups just didn’t seem to hear good and got angry when all Vince was trying to do was tell the truth.
Instead of the bin he clambered on to the cracked lid of the loo, stretched out his arm, and flung the offending piece of gum and hair out of the narrow bathroom window and in to the alley below. There was a lot of trash in the alley. And rats. And foxes sometimes. Maybe one of them would find a use for the Hubba Bubba hair hunk. Or maybe a bird would swoop down and snatch it, Vince thought, already imagining the scenario in brightly coloured stop motion. It could make a good addition to a nest, on account of being sticky. The nest would stay in one piece even when it was extra windy, and he knew for a fact that birds liked lining their nests with hair. They’d stolen his gran’s wig twice to do just that.
Imagining scenarios and possible uses for the hair was a fun distraction but eventually Vince jumped down from the loo and turned to look at himself in the mirror. His hair was no longer just one even length. Now there was an odd tuft on top, like he’s seen on a giant parrot once from the window of an aeroplane.
The tuft looked out of place but, Vince wondered, maybe if he added more it would look like he’d meant for it to look like that. He’d seen Mick Jagger rock a similar look once, on Top of the Pops. If Mick could do it, Vince reckoned he could too.
Cutting his hair again was scary, but not quite as scary as the first time, and Vince was pretty good at following through on ideas once he’d set his mind to them. Maybe one day he’d draw himself a nice hair salon and jump through. He could be a hairdresser extraordinaire, master of all styles. Yeah. He’d be Vince Noir, hair style star!
When he was done Vince put the scissors carefully away and skipped down the hall to gran’s flat. His hair wasn’t long and straight and neat but it sure was something. He grabbed himself a banana and a handful of coco pops for lunch before turning on the radio, content to spend the afternoon dancing, happy in his own world.
By the time bedtime came and gran was home from work, Vince had gotten used to his new hair and even liked looking at himself in his small mirror. His hair swished so pretty when he moved his head, like a really trendy hedgehog. He just hoped that the bullies wouldn’t notice the change, or that he liked it. If they saw he liked his hair they would likely do something worse.
With a sigh little Vince Noir climbed in to bed and gazed out of his window, up at the few stars that had fought through the London smog to shine down on him. Uncle Bryan had told him once that if he wished upon a star - and sang that wish with enough vibrato - the wish would come true. At the time Vince hadn’t been able to think of a single wish. He’d been happy, surrounded by animals and a beautiful jungle. The animals had never bullied him, and when the monkeys had tried to steal his face, the animals had protected him. He didn’t have any protectors now. In London he was alone in the worst way. He was lonely but never left alone by the bullies.
Taking a deep breath in Vince turned to stare at the brightest star he could see and sang his wish.
… And so, Vince Noir, in a noisy face he hoped to grow in to, stood once again in the concrete playground, his fist clutching his favourite purple stick of chalk. Other than a single boy sitting idly on a swing and a few girls trying to make themselves sick on the round-about the depressing play space was empty.
There was a slight breeze that day and the way it moved his hair as he sat down made Vince smile. He decided to draw his hair salon, and his wishing star, and a really fat unicorn, just because he could. But his happy mood didn’t last long. Too soon a shadow fell across his half-finished drawing and the jeering started.
“Little baby Vince Noir!”
“What a baby!”
“What a Girl!”
“What happened to your hair, Girl?”
Vince took a chance and looked up. Yup, it was the same bullies as the day before. One had rotten teeth, another had a permanently snot-crusted nose, a third wore a dirty sandwich bag like a hat, held on with mayo. And they dared to insult Vince’s hair?
He didn’t say it out loud but something in the movement of his face - his plasticine, spell-it-all-out-simple-for-the-folks-at-the-back face - made it plain what he’d been thinking. The bullies were furious. He was in for a kicking.
“You’re in for a kickin’, Noir!”
Yep, he’d guessed it right.
For some reason Vince stood up. Usually he wouldn’t but something in his brain said ‘stand up’, so Vince did. Perhaps he couldn’t wish for someone to save him, to be his protector. Perhaps he needed to do it for himself. Or maybe he hadn’t wished with enough vibrato. He closed his eyes, grimacing against the punch to the face that was likely to come. Standing up was one thing, but Vince wasn’t brave enough to watch the fist coming for his poor nose.
Except it didn’t come. There was a rumbling sound, followed by wind and thunder and lightening. The kids in the playground started calling out in shock and just a touch of fear and Vince opened his eyes just in time to see the rusty gate swing open with an ominous creak.
And then the chanting started.
“Charliecharliecharliecharliecharliecharliecharliecharlie…”
At first it didn’t make sense. Then two beings appeared, half as tall as Vince, like sprites or hobs except they were bright, bubblegum pink! They danced and writhed and were the ones who seemed to be chanting. Vince had never imagined that such small creatures could sing so deep.
The bullies were getting skittish, trying to run but too panicked to do so. They only managed to bump in to one another and get in each others way. Vince side stepped them neatly but he didn’t run. He wasn’t afraid. Usually Vince was a bit of a scaredy cat and even though he understood why the other kids were scared, he just didn’t feel the same this time. Something was coming, something that was bringing the lightening and the wind with it, and Vince was excited to meet it!
“CharlieCharlieCharlieCharlieCharlieCharlieCharlieCharlie!”
The pink sprites were undulating as they sang, stretching and twanging and bulging in strange ways just like real bubblegum and Vince grinned in delight.
“Charlie! Charlie! Charlie! Charlie! Charlie! Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!”
Vince bounced from foot to foot, practically dancing along, his excitement fizzing like sour candy. He didn’t know why he was so excited but he didn’t care either. Charlie was coming!
“Who the heck is Charlie?” cried one of the bullies. He wasn’t smiling. He was crying and had a wet patch at the front of his shorts. Vince shrugged in response. He didn’t know who Charlie was but he was excited to find out.
In answer to the bully’s question there was a massive crack of lightening, the thunder sounding almost simultaneously. And in the flash of light a shape appeared at the entrance to the playground.
“Charlie! Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!
He’s a Hubba Bubba Nightmare!”
The creature was huge and pink and misshapen. It had a black hat and small, goopy hands and a massive nose and shiny, crazy eyes. And it had a huge moustache. Vince blinked. He could almost believe that the creature was made entirely out of bubblegum and that it’s facial hair had once been…
Vince patted his own hair, feeling a strong sense of kinship with the large monster blocking the only exit to the playground. Charlie, he realised. Charlie was here. He’d wished for Charlie and Charlie had come. Vince had always known his hair was magic.
The attack on the bullies was brutal, by six-year-old standards. There were wedgies and wet willies involved and each bully had their hair slicked with gum before they were each stuck fast to a tree. Charlie didn’t attack the other children, the ones who weren’t bullies, and he didn’t attack Vince.
When it was all done, the sprites skipped away with a wave. Vince was a little sad about that because he’d been dancing with them and it had been fun. But Charlie didn’t skip away. Instead he slip-slopped over to Vince and held out his goopy hand. Vince hesitated for a second but when he took it he was surprised to find that their fingers didn’t stick together. Charlie was his wish which apparently meant he could control when he was sticky and when he wasn’t.
With a sudden gurgle he swung Vince up and up and on to the top of his hat where Vince was able to sit like a little prince upon a throne.
“Thanks, Charlie,” Vince said breathlessly, fluffing his hair and gazing out over his little patch of the city. “That was genius. Hey, fancy going on an adventure?”
Charlie squelched and sped off across the footpath, knocking the boring business men and and dour dinner ladies out of his path. They’d been waiting for the bus but Charlie didn’t care, he’d bowled them over like they were cheap plastic pins and Vince had howled with laughter until he couldn’t draw breath. Together they’d found a fun fair and met a ‘gator in cowboy boots and a walrus who played the banjo and it had been the best day in Vince’s life.
And from that day on, Vince wasn’t bothered by bullies. At least, not for long.
…
Little Vince Noir, wishing on a star
How I wonder who you are
Are you a rocker? punk? or goth?
Bouncing fast like a rabbit?
Slouching back like a sloth?
Little Vince Noir, Super Star
Are you French duke or Russian tsar?
Jungle child? or chimney sweep?
How many secrets do you keep?
…