Of a Feather
by Alex Zoubine
Xaimi was a perfectly normal little boy when he was born. He had his mother Luma’s beak, twelve perfect little fingers, two nubs on his back that would eventually grow into wings, and a fuzz of candy-floss pink down. From his father Dori, Xaimi got a scaly, serpentine tail and chubby, leonine legs. The happy parents swaddled him in cloud-soft blankets and brought him home to a crib that Luma had fussed over for months before baby Xaimi arrived.
Luma and Dori marveled how each day revealed another facet of Xaimi’s emerging personality. Like his mother, Xaimi loved cricket-flour biscuits and hated the smell of pickled anything. On Saturday mornings, his giggles echoed through the apartment when Dori spun him around in a makeshift swing.
Early on, Luma also noticed little Xaimi stiffened and cried if she lifted him more than three feet off the ground. Luma assured herself it was normal for little ones to be afraid of heights. When his wings were bigger, he would discover the joy of soaring above the world.
But while Xaimi grew, his wings did not. When he entered preschool, he had just two little bumps between his shoulder blades with a half-dozen feathers between them. Pediatricians assured Luma that Xaimi was a happy, thriving boy and that there was nothing to worry about. Every child grew at their own rate.
About a week before first grade started, the family went shopping for new clothes. Xaimi would look dashing in some crisp, clean shirts and Dori needed new shoes. While Luma browsed the colorful kids’ racks, Dori and Xaimi wandered to the hat aisle.
When she had an arm-full of options for Xaimi, Luma navigated back to the boys. She found Dori wearing a silvery stovepipe hat that made his massive, shaggy head look even more round. Xaimi, standing amid a mess of tried-on hats, had settled on a simple, blue baseball cap.
“Are you sure you want that, honey?” Luma asked, spying what appeared to be a few loose threads sticking out the back. “It looks like it’s falling apart.”
Luma yanked one of the threads. Xaimi yelped and reeled away, clutching his head.
“I’m sorry I hurt you, honey!” Luma exclaimed, wrapping her son in her arms. Xaimi snuffled miserably, Luma glanced at the thread in her hand. It looked too thin to be from the hat. Luma peered closer at the back of Xaimi’s head. Between the fluffy, pink baby feathers, she saw something she had never noticed before: clumps of stringy hairs.
Instead of going for ice cream after shopping, the family went straight to the doctor.
“He looks perfectly healthy,” Doctor Leman said. Xaimi crawled off the paper-wrapped bench and curled up in Dori’s lap
“But he has hair! On his head!” Luma insisted, keeping her voice low. She didn’t want to upset her son.
“It is not uncommon for archaic genes to switch on if a child receives functioning copies from both parents. A few centuries ago, nearly all humans had hair on their heads,” the doctor said, tapping a few final notes in his digital notebook.
“All of them?” Luma gasped. She had seen people with hair in historical records, but she couldn’t imagine everyone walking around with hair on their heads.
“Is there any way we could fix this?” she asked.
“You could try plucking the hairs,” said Doctor Leman.
“What about something more permanent? You said his genes are the issue?”
“Regulations forbid cosmetic gene therapy on minors,” the doctor said. “When Xaimi is old enough to make a decision, we can discuss genetic adjustments to suppress hair growth.”
“But what if the other kids tease him, Doctor? This could be a mental health issue!” Luma begged. The doctor e-transferred a handful of manuals on managing the condition and alerted the front desk staff that the visit was coming to a close.
“I recommend patience,” the doctor said, ushering the family to the front of the clinic. “Xaimi is perfectly healthy. I’m sure his teachers and classmates will appreciate him just the way he is.”
On Xaimi’s first day of big-boy school, Luma helped Xaimi pick out a bright orange bandana that complemented his pink feathers and hid his bright blue hairs.
“Don’t take it off or lose it! This is part of your look,” Luma said.
“Okay, Momma,” Xaimi said and gave Luma a peck on the cheek and bounded off to the school’s front doors. Luma worried that the bandana might slip and everyone would see Xaimi’s hair. But each day, Xaimi joyfully returned from class with the bandana still in place, gushing stories about his classmates. Listening to him, Luma smiled with relief. Her boy passed for normal.
On Tuesday of the second week, when Luma arrived to pick Xaimi up from school, she noticed something about Xaimi’s bandana was amiss. The cloth was still on Xaimi’s head, but it looked crooked and lumpy.
“How was school, darling? Did something happen to your bandana?”
Xaimi absently pulled at it and a tuft of feathers slipped out. Amid the pink, Luma saw a spray of blue hairs.
“I lost my bandana at recess. We were playing, and it fell off,” Xaimi said.
Luma felt her heart freeze. The blue hairs were so obvious. Had any of the children seen them? “Did anyone say anything?” she asked.
Xaimi didn’t seem upset. “My friend Meera said I have the best hair and that I don’t need the bandana. But I told her it’s part of my look.”
“Best hair? Someone else in your class has hair?” Luma asked.
“Maxi and Surra have hair, too. But mine is the best,” Xaimi declared proudly.
Luma felt her shoulders loosen and the feathers on her neck relax. Xaimi scratched absently at the lumpy bandana.
“Why don’t we take that off,” Luma said, untying the bandana. Wind rustled Xaimi’s hair and feathers, and he smiled brightly.
Xaimi was fine. Better than fine. He was perfect just the way he was.
Copyright © 2024 by Alex Zoubine
