She carried a basketful of hair to her grandfather's cottage, which stood deep in the forest on does' legs, twelve of them. The legs trembled as she approached, picking up her grandfather's unease.
"Easy," he cautioned the legs from his doorstep perch. "Easy, Physics, easy, Cthonics. Easy Rhetorics and Placement." But still the house lurched to one side as a few knees buckled, then straightened themselves.

"Grandfather," called Floss from among the fir trees, "my mother has sent something for you."

"Stand back, Flossie, you are frightening my house. What do you have in that basket?"

"Grandfather, Mother has sent you a basketful of hair. From our side of the forest we can hear the wind moan through the crevices of your house. We can hear the wind whistle over the plain of your head, and we hear your knees knock and your teeth chatter. Mother knows you are too proud to take hair from the legs of your house, so she is sending you this basket of her own."

"My own daughter's hair? Perversion! Begone!"

"Forgive me Grandfather, I mistold it. This is not my mother's hair, but the hair of our buffalo, which rolls and ruts in the fields. Mother combed it from his shanks when he was lonely in the night."

Grandfather hummed and stroked the lintel for a while, calming himself. "Is he a noble buffalo?" he eventually asked.

"Quite a noble buffalo," said Flossie.

Her grandfather beckoned her with one hand, holding the other up to slow her down, and Floss gradually crept closer to the house. The house shuddered and stamped at the smell of the buffalo - or perhaps it was at the smell of young Flossie herself.

When Flossie was close enough Grandfather bid her climb up on the doorstep, and together they looked at the basket of hair. It was thick, complex and odiferous, though well combed.

"This is fine hair," said Grandfather. He reached into the basket and felt the sheaves of coarse, silky fibre, its thick clumps and fine strands. His granddaughter leaned herself against the doorframe and began to hum, as a sleepiness came over him.

How he loved his granddaughter, sitting there staring out into the woods, her fingers digging at the gaps in the floorboards. He had not been good to her mother, he recalled, but they had both had faces that promised so much.

Just then the trees gave a sudden shudder and shriek, and the house tottered slightly to the east. An icy gust passed through the cracks in the walls. Flossy shivered and stuck her hands into her pockets, but her grandfather leaped into the air.

"Ha! I won't be fooled. You and your mother, trying to make me old, trying to put me to sleep. You want to come in here with your basket of softness and steal my dignity. See this?" He turned his back to her and arched it, so his spine stood out like a blade.

"This spine cuts the wind in two, leaves it in shreds on this very floor. And every time it cuts the wind, the wind sharpens it, whets my bones to an edge that howls so the devil knows what he'll meet.

The little girl sprung up from where she sat amongst the shreds of wind.

"Grandfather, what about your neck? You are now a completely hairless old man, and surely the wrinkles around your neck and ears must long for protection and warmth? My mother has taught me how to knit, Grandfather, and I could sit here at your feet --"