Hair Peace

by Piers Anthony

  Hair Peace

  Piers Anthony is the author of over 170 books. His popular series include Xanth, The Incarnations of Immortality, Chromagic, Geodyssey, Mode, Bio of a Space Tyrant, Adept, and Cluster.

  Other books by Piers Anthony from Dreaming Big Publications:

  Writer's Retweet

  Service Goat

  Relationships 6

  Relationships 7 (coming soon)

  Other books in this series:

  Hair Power

  Hair Suite

  Collaborations by Piers Anthony

  and Kenneth Kelly:

  Virtue Inverted

  Amazon Expedient

  Magenta Salvation (coming soon)

  Hair Peace

  The third novella in the Hair Suit series following Hair Power and Hair Suite

  Piers Anthony

  Hair Peace

  Copyright © 2017 by Piers Anthony

  Cover Art: Macario Hernandez

  Editor-in-Chief: Kristi King-Morgan

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Dreaming Big Publications

  Introduction

  This is the third novella in the Hair Suit series, following Hair Power, where terminally ill Quiti helps an alien hairball and is rewarded with spectacular hair, and Hair Suite, which introduces the alien Chip Monks who have similar powers from their chips. Both Hairs and Chips have the power to cure illness such as cancer or AIDS, and to endow their hosts with phenomenal intelligence, handsomeness, and other useful powers. They now occupy their joint embassy in a small city in America, tolerated by global powers because they are both popular and dangerous to cross. They are in touch with galactic civilization via the Worm Web, a network extending across the galaxy and beyond. Don’t worry, if you’re a new reader; details will be clarified as necessary, though it wouldn't hurt you to go back and read the other two.

  Chapter 1: Hair Skirt

  It had quickly become a daily ritual. Quiti emerged from the Hair Suite of the City Hall, garbed in her shining robe, and advanced to the plaza where a throng of ordinary men, women, and children awaited her as if she were a phenomenal celebrity. Which she was, but the experience was still new enough to give her pleasure.

  She ranged out with her mind, assessing the noesis, the group intellect. It was positive; there were no haters here, no xenophobes, no lurking assassins. That was a relief. She could nullify a killer, telepathically turning his mind to confusion so that he forgot his mission, but she much preferred not to. Today there was the usual assortment of old and new minds, old being the regulars who came almost every day, new being those who had never been here before. Among the new minds there were some skeptics, but they were not hostile, and they would not be skeptical long. Among the old minds were the supportive older folk, the admiring young women, and the young men who were mentally stripping her naked and taking her to bed. Not today she thought to the one with the worst crush on her, and he smiled, appreciating that much of a direct mental contact with her.

  “Hi folks!” she called, waving. Informality was the order of the day.

  “Hi, Hair Brain!” they clamored back. It was no insult; the Hair Suits were of genius level, though they seldom cared to show it. Instead, they stressed being ordinary folk with some special gifts.

  “What can I do for you today?”

  “The Hair Skirt!” a thirteen-year-old new boy cried. News of her little show had of course gotten around.

  Quiti looked at him. “Does your mother approve of that?”

  “She’s not here today.”

  There was general laughter. He was being naughty, but others looked interested.

  “Your logic is persuasive,” Quiti said. “Hair Skirt it is.” She glanced around. “Promise not to tell.”

  There was a ripple of laughter. They loved her teasing. This reminded her of the start of her manifestation as a hair suit, when she was a twenty-year-old pudgy victim of brain cancer looking for a private place to die. The alien hairball had given her far more than renewed life; it had made her breathtakingly smart and lovely. Thank you! she thought to her hair, which was actually a colony of alien creatures. She was their host, but by no means their captive; they made her what she was today. She was vastly more than satisfied. Life, beauty, virtual magic, popularity, power—what more could a girl ask? She was happy to represent them on Earth.

  Then she organized her outfit. First, her hair trailed down into a full hair halter, full in the sense of her bosom under it; and a liquidly-flowing hair skirt that looked to be just about to part revealingly when her legs moved under it. In fact, the whole outfit seemed in danger of separating the moment her body moved even slightly too vigorously. Now she had the full attention of the men and boys, and a number of the women and girls too. The boys wanted to catch glimpses of her breasts or thighs, while the girls wanted to see how she avoided giving such glimpses. All part of the naughty tease. Some of the older folk who had seen this dance before were quietly smiling.

  Quiti caught a hank of her hair in her left hand and separated it into several taut strands extending from her head to her splayed fingers. Then she used her right hand to pluck the strands, and music sounded in the manner of a harp. It was the melody of a popular song, vibrant, as if issuing from a loudspeaker.

  She started the dance. Her hair swirled out from her head and from her bosom, somehow not interfering with her makeshift harp, but without exposing anything: her halter became a concealing cone. It came together at her narrow waist, and flared again around her hips, again without showing anything salacious. Her legs parted, and the hair skirt parted too, in the manner of a grass garment that had no solid material, not quite showing her thighs. She whirled, and the hair lifted in a spreading ring, above and below, but her body was shadowed beneath it.

  She whirled harder, and the hair spread into full circles that left no coverage of breasts or hips. But there was nothing to be seen. Those sections of her torso had become invisible. “I don’t know how I do it,” she sang. “Making love out of nothing at all.” Literally, it seemed. The harp faded out, freeing her hands, but its music continued. Somehow she was playing it without hands, which were disappearing anyway.

  Then she made it more obvious. Her hair started fading as she danced, so that it no longer covered her private parts. It spiraled down from her head, past her halter, and went translucent, then transparent, then disappeared entirely. But there was no bosom under it, only empty space. There was a murmur of surprise from the newer part of the audience.

  Now her head and upper torso were gone, but her body remained from the waist down. The hair formed into a skirt that extended to her knees, and the knees faded out along with the rest of her legs and feet. Only the skirt itself remained, still dancing as if supported by a vigorous body. The hips jerked to and fro, in time to the music, moving the hidden center of gravity. It was a provocatively sexy display—of nothing at all.

  Then faint outlines appeared, as if some celestial hand were sketching the outline of firm legs below, and bouncing breasts above. When the skirt flexed as if moved by a high kick, the outline showed one leg lifting almost to head height, exposing all that was beneath it. Which was nothing but the inside of the skirt. Now the audience murmur was of awe. The eyes of the young men were straining, but simply not finding what they sought. It was pure flirtation, but they were loving it.

  It was projected illusion, a function of her telepathy. She touched the minds of the watchers, sending images. It helped that they were willing participants, happy to go along with her suggestions; they could readily have resisted them had their
collective mood been negative. She was actually dancing fully clothed in her hair, but delivering the illusion of selective emptiness. Because it was not one person watching, but a hundred or more, she could not do it as thoroughly, but she had learned to aid it with mechanics. She used her magnetic component to divert the rays of light around her limbs and continue beyond uninterrupted, so it never actually interacted with her body. It was another wonderful gift of the hair.

  In due course, the solo skirt lengthened and the flimsy outlines of her legs and bosom strengthened, until she was whole again. But so was her outfit, so that nothing private showed. The tease was done, for the moment.

  Quiti, maintaining light telepathic contact, became aware of a need. A young woman in the audience, Ola, was here only because another woman she wanted to impress, Pacifa, was here. Ola was a lesbian, and wished she could flash the other lesbian and get her serious attention for a relationship. She was afraid to approach her directly, because lesbians could be as tricky to handle as men. It had to be done correctly; a wrong move could sour it forever. What she really needed was to catch Pacifa’s eye so that she would approach Ola. But how? That was the problem.

  Quiti knew the answer. “I need a volunteer,” she announced, then gave Ola a mental nudge that propelled her forward before anyone else moved, to her surprise.

  “Thank you,” Quiti said. “All you have to do is match my steps. Can you handle that?”

  Ola opened her mouth to protest that she couldn’t possibly equal Quiti’s superlative dancing, let alone match steps and high kicks with her. But Quiti sent another signal, and the young woman shut her mouth and came to stand beside her, emulating her posture. Ola was shapely and pretty in her blouse and skirt, with long dishwater blond hair and delicate slippers: she was a very female female.

  “Exactly,” Quiti said. She lifted one arm, and Ola did the same, prompted by another mental signal. Then the opposite leg, kicking high enough to show panties, except that somehow nothing quite showed. Ola matched her perfectly.

  Telepathy! Ola thought, catching on. Now she knew she was being manipulated like a marionette, and didn’t object: she could break free anytime.

  Go with the flow, Quiti thought, as Ola’s hair seemed to become bright platinum and twice as full, complementing Quiti’s suddenly golden tresses. The invisible harp twanged as they went into a high-stepping, hip-thrusting, hair-flinging dance that might have been interesting with one person, but was more than twice as interesting with two perfectly synchronized dancers. It was said that the most beautiful thing in the world was two women making love. This was close to that. They whirled in consummate time, then came together for an intimate swing, and separated for the concluding bow to the audience.

  There was vigorous applause. The men loved it, and so did Pacifa, who was amazed. She had seen Ola around, and knew her nature, but had no idea she was capable of such a show. That changed things.

  “Isn’t she something?” Quiti asked, glancing at Ola. “I couldn’t have done it without her.” There was more applause.

  Ola, nudged by a thought, went to stand beside Pacifa, as if coincidentally. Her performance was done. She looked slightly dazed, as none of this had been deliberate on her part.

  Then Quiti proffered another view. The column of her hair descended from crown to toe, with outlines of her head, face, neck, shoulders, breasts, waist, hips, thighs, legs, and feet, all masked beneath the hair but highly suggestive, shaped by the moving tresses. This was the essence of the Hair Dance. The harp music ended.

  The audience applauded again, then dissipated, knowing the show was over until tomorrow. Pacifa and Ola departed together, chatting amiably. Quiti smiled, knowing that they were now an item. Ola shot one glance at her, appreciating what she had done.

  One boy approached. “Ma’am—” he started hesitantly, but then was tongue-tied by her nearness.

  She focused on him, reading his mind. He was Ripley, age sixteen, of generally good character but of course teen horny. He had a ferocious crush on her, but knew it was normal and would pass. His grandfather was wheelchair-ridden and could not conveniently come to the show without making a scene, and chose not to believe the broadcasts. Ripley wanted very much to persuade Grandpa that he was not imagining things, that Quiti really did become invisible during her dance. He had actually gotten Grandpa to accompany him in the car, but the man refused to leave it for the show. If only Quiti would consent to walk to the car and do just a little magic…

  It was a sensible request, considering. She did have a bit of spare time, and the parked car was not far distant. “Yes, Ripley,” she said. “Let’s go see Grandpa.”

  The youth was amazed, not by her mind reading, but by her agreement. He had feared rejection, but had forced himself to try. “Yeah,” he agreed gratefully.

  She took his hand, as that made silent communication feasible. “Show the way, please.”

  For a moment he was faint, wobbling on his feet. She was holding his hand! His whole arm, up to the shoulder, seemed to be radiating pleasure.

  Steady, Ripley, she thought. It is easier for me to share your thoughts this way. Just walk to the car.

  “Yeah,” he repeated. Then he corrected himself. I mean, yeah. Thanks! It seemed he was a quick study.

  They walked in the right direction. The few people remaining in the area did not notice them, thanks to her gentle diversion of their attention. She also tuned into the boy’s surface thoughts, and that was interesting. They passed a young woman, and Ripley’s mind flared with pleasure as he gazed at her nicely formed bosom, which jogged slightly with each step she took. Quiti made a private mental note: make sure her bosom jogged similarly when she walked. It had to be just the right amount.

  Another girl was walking ahead of them, the youngest of three people, and Ripley's attention was riveted to her flexing bottom beneath her tight, short skirt, as it tuned out others. Quiti had forgotten how fixated young men were on the parts of young women; this was another useful reminder. Quiti could make her body appear ultimately shapely, but that was only part of it; the way it moved was just as important.

  The girl was idly tossing and catching a bangle with one hand. Then it bounced off her fingers and dropped to the ground, rolling to a stop behind her. “Oopsy!” she exclaimed as she stopped, turned, and squatted to pick it up, showing firm young cleavage above and smooth inner thighs below.

  Ripley almost freaked out as the peek imprinted itself forever on his mind. Then she got the bracelet, rose, turned, and resumed her walk.

  Quiti picked up from the girl’s mind that she had done it on purpose, not so much to flash Ripley but to verify that Quiti was indeed holding his hand. That, too, was interesting.

  They came to the car. An old man was sitting in the passenger seat, looking out the open window. “Hey, Grandpa!” Ripley called. “I brought her! This is Quiti, the Hair Brain!”

  Grandpa stared. “And you’re holding hands with her? She’s a married woman.”

  “It’s an open marriage, Mr. Shylock,” Quiti said modestly.

  He was surprised. “You know my name?”

  She smiled. “I read your mind. It is one of my powers.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Everything Ripley told you is true,” she continued.

  He was starting to believe. “Even—?”

  “Especially,” she said, flashing him with her fine bare breasts as her blouse faded out. It turned out that old men, too, suffered flares of pleasure from such glimpses. Then she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “It is nice meeting you. Ripley holds you in high regard. He thought you might enjoy meeting me in person.”

  Mr. Shylock was silent. It was his turn to be overwhelmed. Quiti knew that he would never again belittle his grandson’s interests. In fact, he too now had a passing crush on Quiti, and would surely show up at her next show. To support his grandson, of course, no other reason.

  Then she dampened her awareness of their thoughts and walke
d back to the Embassy, alone. They would remember this encounter for a long time.

  It was all part of Public Relations, making sure the Hair Suits were held in good regard.

  There were people at the Hair Embassy, of course, doing the routine chores that Quiti didn’t care to bother with. She was holding the fort alone, as far as Hairs and Chips went, as the others had gone through a Worm Hole and were entertaining galactic tourists with naughty fantasy skits. The only other significant person here at the moment who counted was Idola, a Chip Monk. She was a pretty brown-haired girl, age eleven, the informal girlfriend of Quiti’s adopted son Tillo, a twelve-year-old Hair Suit. Quiti was nominally babysitting her, though as a Chip, the girl could certainly take care of herself.

  Quiti’s mind ranged back in a quick review. Idola was the daughter of her best friend Gena, herself now both a Hair Suit and a Chip Monk, the only one in their group of that kind. In her impetuous youth, Gena had found herself caught, a single mother, and given her baby up in an open adoption, remaining in touch. Now she was married to the adoptive father, a good straight human man, so Idola, by that devious history, was her legal as well as her blood child. Idola had a heavy subject to study for, so was out in a field of flowers with her big British Literature book, determined to get it right.

  Quiti’s mind ranged out to intercept the mind of the girl because, while the Chips were highly talented, they were not telepathic. She found her, and paused.

  Because Idola was not exactly alone.

  Joining you, Quiti thought.

  Thanks, the girl responded. There’s something odd.

  There was indeed.

  Chapter 2: Lost Child

  Idola was sitting on a hillock overlooking a field of flowers, deep in her study of the British poet William Wordsworth. It was for a test, and she hated tests. She had had little interest in poetry of any kind, but since she had acquired her Chip and become phenomenally more intelligent, pretty, clairvoyant, and able to fly, she had discovered virtues in obscure things.