The escaped hairs I tugged from the brush’s bristles and rolled between my palms until they formed a tight ball. Then I squashed my hairballs inside a jam jar and placed the jar on the top shelf of my bookcase. I had carelessly selected, from my mother’s marmalade-making stash, a jar which formerly contained baby onions. Almost immediately, the knitted fibres of each ball were impregnated by the scent of vinegar—of preservation and corrosion both at once.