Amy walked up to the front desk, where the old man was reading his large book. "Um, excuse me?" she asked.
The old man lifted his head off his fist, drowsily looking up and down Amy's body--surely examining the long wig.
"How much for this wig?" Amy said hopefully. She was already searching her pockets for whatever money she had.
The man blinked. "Wig?"
"Yes, this wig," Amy said, putting a hand on her head. "I love it and I'd like to buy it if I can afford it."
"We have many wigs in aisle eight," the old man said. "If you're looking for one."
"No, I mean this one!" Amy couldn't understand what the old man's problem was. Surely he would realize it wasn't normal for a high school girl to have hair almost down to the floor? She took both hands to the side of her head to lift it off and show him that it was the wig she was talking about, but for some reason she couldn't grip its underside.
"Young lady, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Amy said as she combed her fingers through the hair in search of a way to remove it. Through the hair her fingertips came in contact with her own scalp! Frightened, she tugged hard at the hair near its roots. "OW!"
"I don't understand," the old man wheezed, "Why a girl with such beautiful hair as yourself would want a wig."
By now Amy had stopped pulling her hair. She needed no more convincing that the hair was attached to her head permanently. Maybe this is the kind of magic she had been told about. This shop could actually fulfill her desires! Her anxiety slowly began to dissolve into excitement.
"If you want, aisle eight also has some hair care products you may be interested in."
"Thank you," Amy said, smiling wide. "Thank you very much!" She half-skipped back down aisle eight to find the tools she needed to care for her new hair.