The Mohair Affair

I’ve moved to Amsterdam. Everyone is tall, thick-haired and co-ordinated. I saw a guy peeling an orange on his bike the other day. I didn’t even know adults ate oranges.

I was planning on writing something observational and insightful: a reflection on Dutch culture, that simultaneously highlighted the extent of my personal growth. Instead, I’m going to write about something stupid and pointless. As Lululemon says, ‘You Do You, Boo!’

Here is my story.

It was our second weekend in Amsterdam, and we were on our way to a flea market. The market has a Dutch name and like many Dutch words, the best way to say it is by pretending you’re coughing up giant hairball. Hairball Market (sic) is on once a month, and can only be reached by ferry. Are you getting how rare this feels?

We arrived at the wharf wearing large empty backpacks — Treasure Vessels — before boarding the actual vessel and crossing the sea in search of diamonds.

Hairball Market did not disappoint. It was mazey and sprawling and bursting with goodness worthy of Stress Sweat.

Antique sewing machines! Racist blackface paraphernalia! 80s sweatshirts! Stained Persian carpets! Wheelchairs with no wheels! Emerald rings! Imitation Rexona (Rexina!) shower gels! Hotdogs made of entirely of foreskin!

You name it, they had it.

Naturally, within minutes of entering I was in deep distress, trying to calculate exactly how much money I had wasted during my lifetime by purchasing things first-hand. Hairball Market had succeeded in making everything that was NOT from Hairball Market feel like highway robbery.

The better the stuff I found, the more anxious I became.

A buttery suede jacket worn-in to perfection, for a paltry 20 Euros? Jesus mother of Christ, I DO. But also…how on earth had Topshop lured me into paying 120 Euros for Vegan Leather* only last week?

Whilst my body sifted through piles of joy, my mind was back in the apartment, trying to find the receipts for everything that was still within the return period.

A foreskin hotdog and a porcelain pig later, I was finally able to relax. And that’s when I saw it. The Mohair Jumper. It sat squarely on the right side of retro and posed very little risk of turning me into Jerry Seinfeld’s doppelgänger. Instead, I would look like the man peeling the orange, in female form.

The wool was soft, and there was rainbow detailing on the shoulders that caused my hands to flap with joy. Through some wizardry, the bagginess somehow made me look thinner. Diminutive. Wistful. Like a cool, small, shy person. Which fuck knows I am not.

I had visions of myself, with my new blond Dutch friends, softly draped over drainpipes at parties, toasty despite the freezing cold because mohair is warm AND THAT’S ONE OF THE REASONS IT’S NORMALLY SO FUCKEN EXPENSIVE. Except this wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t. I bought it eagerly, thrusting my Euros towards the seller like a Duggar at a strip club.

The rest of the day was equally splendid. We left as the market closed, laden with treasure filled bags. My back was spasming from the weight of my cargo, but I pretended I was an sculptor, and embraced the pain.

I jumped into action as soon as we got home, siphoning everything into the washing machine so that I could start looking excellent as soon as possible. I hesitated when it came to the mohair jumper. There were rules around things like this, but they’d always fallen under the Boring category of life that I’d actively avoided.

That said, the jumper smelt of other people’s anxiety, and I had enough of my own shit to deal with.

I found the coldest setting on the wash and chucked it in. 2 hours later, the cycle ended with its creepy post-orgasmic shudder, and I crouched down to retrieve my babies. I extracted item after item, reaching into the back to get the last of it. Suddenly, my hand touched something stiff and hairy.

I pulled it out slowly.

The object in question was small, hard and jumper-shaped. It was also black.

I recoiled violently.

The Mohair Jumper. Not only was it now the size of a shrivelled ballsack, it appeared to be suffering from a rare (but severe) form of post-post-post rigor mortis. I grabbed at the edges, trying in vain to yank it back into its effortlessly perfect shape. But the effortlessness had left its body. It had nothing more to give.

I charged into the living room, forcing it onto the back of a chair and violating both objects obscenely in the process. It assumed an angry box shape, but refused to soften.

In a fit of mania, I wrenched the stiff, damp corpse onto my bereaved torso. And then, onto my boyfriend’s large and bewildered one. Fear and confusion flashed through his eyes. I knew then that I had to stop.

I had to let go.

The next morning I crept out of bed, secretly hoping for a Christmas Miracle™. The jumper sat fierce and rigid on the table, and the entire room was covered in a black, downy fuzz.

Top quality hairballs have been wafting through the apartment ever since.

Little ghosts in mohair jumpers.

• Vegan Leather — like the Air Fryer — is not a real thing. It is Bullshit.