You've got to get out of this house, but you can't go trekking through the park with your hair as long as it is. It has to be tied up.
You nervously peer back into the mirror room and the accessories lining the door. You try to find the most harmless-looking thing, and settle on a black lace ribbon. You gather your hair by pulling the very end of the twelve-foot locks up to your head and tying them up, creating a loop of straight black hair that hangs to the floor. It's not attractive, or standard procedure, but you don't have the time to care about those kinds of things.
You turn to leave the room, but your fingertips suddenly begin to burn. It feels like something is trying to pull your nails out of them. You clutch one hand with the other, fingers twisted inward. Your nails are changing. Growing. Turning black. The painful feeling subsides as they slow to a halt. You are left with a magical manicure: shiny black fingernails, each are obnoxiously one-and-a-half inches long. They appear to be more like claws than nails, especially with their tips being rounded-off points instead of flat.
This doesn't seem to be all, however. As you wonder to yourself why your nails would change because of a hair ribbon, you feel the ribbon slip off your hair. It slowly glides to the floor, but is outpaced by your hair, which slumps down much more quickly.
Before you can even bend down to pick the ribbon up, you notice something even stranger. The hair that has fallen back to the floor now looks to be slowly growing back upwards. Is it growing back into your head? You don't think so, since you don't feel anything strange happening to your scalp.
You look in the mirrors. Your hair is actually curling up near your head. It isn't shrinking, you realize, but merely gathering into curls. As it twists and clumps together, it creates dense curls that effectively shorten the length of the hair. Meanwhile, the hair around your feet is slowly unraveling because it's being pulled up by the forming curls.
In any other situation, you would be fascinated by the beauty of these gorgeous curls that were appearing without the laborious process of using irons and hair spray. Right now, though, you just wish all of these changes would stop.
Knowing that isn't about to happen, you stay perfectly still as your hair continues its work. More and more curls bunch themselves up. They are tightening up into perfect, shiny black ringlets, forming a puffy mass of hair that gets wider and wider behind you. As the curling reaches your thighs, the last of the hair is pulled up from the floor. Soon all twelve feet are coiled into the ringlets. They are thick and springy, unable to be held back by your shoulders. You are surrounded on three sides by the massive bush of calf-length curls.
If your hair predicament was difficult before, this new development is intolerable. You bend down to pick up the ribbon, and your hair drops to envelop your entire field of vision. You try to push the curls aside as you grope about the floor for the ribbon. Once you've found it, you do your best to tie your hair so that it won't spill over your shoulders. It's harder to tie now that your nails are so long, but eventually you get it done. The ribbon's tidy bow sits atop your head, holding your hair behind your ears in an incredible mass that will surely turn heads once you're back out in public.
"As if I wasn't going to get attention before," you grumble to yourself.
This is the last straw. Now that you at least have some control over your hair, you set out to leave the house and do something about your changes. Maybe the police would like to know what's going on around here.
You hurry down the hall in your platforms, your hair swaying heavily and your heels clopping clumsy. You pray that you can find a way, somehow, to change back to normal.