The Town That Takes Hair Very Seriously

Bloomberg was not like other towns.

Every street had a salon. Every salon had a sign. Every sign said something bold, like "BAD HAIR IS BAD MANNERS" or "WE FIX WHAT YOUR PILLOW DID."

The people of Bloomberg were proud of their hair. Deeply, personally, aggressively proud.

And then there were the kids.

Six of them, specifically, who were the talk of every barbershop on Comb Street.

"There goes the Mane Gang," old Mr. Fitch muttered from his salon doorway, watching them stomp past.

He wasn't wrong. Ollie's hair flopped past his chin. Remi's curls swallowed his ears completely. Mike's fringe covered both eyebrows and most of his nose. Jacob had a ponytail that swung like a rope. Carson's hair puffed out sideways like a thundercloud.

And then there was Jackie — red streaks, long black waves down her back, bangs hanging straight over her dark eyes.

"Oi," she said, pulling her bangs aside just enough to glare at Mr. Fitch's sign.

She did not look impressed.

The Parrot Knows Everything

Mr. Fitch wasn't the only one watching.

Perched on the sign above Comb Street's fanciest salon — "HEADS UP HAIR STUDIO" — sat a large green parrot in a tiny rhinestone collar. His name was Biscuit. He belonged to Marco, the head stylist inside, and he had opinions.

"MESSY! MESSY! MESSY!" Biscuit screamed, stabbing his beak at the six kids below.

"Oi, zip it, bird," Jackie muttered.

But Biscuit didn't zip it. He kept screeching until the salon door swung open and three stylists stepped out — Marco, Danny, and Sal. All young, all wearing matching black aprons, all staring at the Mane Gang's hair like they'd just witnessed a natural disaster.

Marco pressed a hand to his chest. "Six months," he said quietly. "At least."

"Call the others," Sal said. "We're doing this today."

Ollie's eyes went wide. "Doing WHAT today?"

Marco held up a clipper. It buzzed.

The Mane Gang scattered in six different directions, screaming.