[Adapted]

by
O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by begging the grocer, the vegetable man, and the butcher until one’s cheeks turned red with the silent blame of being too stingy that such careful bargaining suggested. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but fall down on the worn-out little couch and cry loudly. So Della did it.

Which starts the thought that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles being the most common.

While the lady of the house is slowly moving from the first feeling to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished apartment at $8 per week. It did not exactly make it impossible to describe, but it certainly made one think of the charity officers.

In the hallway below was a mailbox into which no letter would fit, and an electric button that no human finger could make ring. Also connected to it was a card with the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

The “Dillingham” had been added proudly during a time when money was good, and its owner was earning $30 per week. Now that the income had dropped to $20, though, they were seriously thinking of shortening it to a simple and humble “D.” But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his apartment upstairs, he was called “Jim” and warmly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, whom you already know as Della. And that was all that really mattered.

Della finished crying and wiped her cheeks with her powder cloth. She stood by the window and stared blankly at a gray cat walking along a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 to buy Jim a gift. She had been saving every penny she could for months, and this was all she had. Twenty dollars a week wasn’t much. Costs had been higher than she had expected. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a gift for Jim. Her Jim. She had spent many happy hours planning something special for him. Something nice, valuable, and meaningful—something almost good enough to be worthy of Jim.

There was a tall mirror between the windows of the room. Maybe you’ve seen one in an $8 apartment. A very thin and quick-moving person could, by looking at their reflection in narrow strips, get a fairly good idea of how they looked. Della, being slim, had mastered this skill.

Suddenly, she turned away from the window and stood in front of the mirror. Her eyes were shining brightly, but her face turned pale in seconds. Quickly, she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, the James Dillingham Youngs had two things they were very proud of. One was Jim’s gold watch, which had belonged to his father and grandfather. The other was Della’s hair. If the Queen of Sheba had lived in the apartment across from them, Della might have let her hair hang out the window just to make the queen’s jewels seem less impressive. If King Solomon had been the building’s janitor, with all his treasures stored in the basement, Jim would have taken out his watch every time he passed by, just to make Solomon stroke his beard in jealousy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell around her, wavy and shining like a stream of brown water. It reached below her knee and was almost like a dress. Then she quickly put it up again, her hands shaking a little. For a moment, she hesitated and stood still while a few tears dropped onto the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a quick swirl of her skirt and the bright sparkle still in her eyes, she rushed out the door and down the stairs to the street.

She stopped in front of a sign that read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” Della ran up one flight of stairs and took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Madame, a large and pale woman with a cold manner, did not look much like a “Sofronie.”

“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.

“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take your hat off and let me see it.”

The brown waves tumbled down.

“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the thick hair with an expert hand.

“Give it to me quick,” said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours passed in a happy blur. Forget the overly fancy way of saying that. She was searching through all the stores for Jim’s present.

At last, she found it. It was as if it had been made just for Jim. There was nothing else like it in any store, and she had checked them all. It was a platinum pocket watch chain, simple and elegant in design. It showed its value through its quality, not through flashy decorations—just as all truly good things should. It was even worthy of The Watch. The moment she saw it, she knew it had to be Jim’s. It suited him perfectly. Quiet and valuable—those words described both him and the chain.

They took twenty-one dollars for it, and she hurried home with only 87 cents left. With that chain on his watch, Jim would finally feel proud to check the time in front of anyone. Even though his watch was grand, he sometimes looked at it in secret because the old leather strap he used instead of a chain embarrassed him.

When Della got home, her excitement faded a little, replaced by caution and common sense. She took out her curling iron, lit the gas, and started fixing the damage caused by her loving but impulsive decision. And that, dear friends, is always a huge job—a really big one.

In forty minutes, her head was covered in tiny, tight curls that made her look very much like a mischievous schoolboy. She looked at herself in the mirror for a long time, studying her reflection carefully.

“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look, he’ll say I look like a cheap stage performer. But what else could I do—oh! What could I do with only a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”

At 7 o’clock, the coffee was ready, and the frying pan sat on the back of the stove, hot and waiting to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della held the pocket watch chain tightly in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door he always used. Then she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs from the first floor, and for a moment, she turned pale. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about small, everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please, God, let him still think I’m pretty.”

The door opened, and Jim stepped inside and closed it behind him. He looked thin and very serious. Poor guy, he was only twenty-two, and already carrying the responsibility of a family! He needed a new overcoat, and he didn’t even have gloves.

Jim stopped just inside the door, standing as still as a hunting dog that has spotted its prey. His eyes were locked on Della, and there was a look in them that she couldn’t understand. It scared her. It wasn’t anger, or shock, or disappointment, or horror, or anything she had expected. He just stared at her, motionless, with that strange expression on his face.

Della slid off the table and ran toward him.

“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me like that. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t bear to go through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow back—you don’t mind, do you? I just had to do it. My hair grows really fast. Say ‘Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a wonderful—what a truly special gift I got for you.”

“You cut off your hair?” Jim asked slowly, as if he still couldn’t fully understand the fact, no matter how hard he tried.

“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you love me just the same? I’m still me without my hair, aren’t I?”

Jim looked around the room in confusion.

“You’re saying your hair is gone?” he asked, almost as if he couldn’t believe it.

“There’s no need to look for it,” said Della. “I told you—it’s sold. It’s gone. And it’s Christmas Eve, sweetheart. Be good to me, because I did it for you. Maybe every hair on my head was counted,” she added, suddenly soft and serious, “but no one could ever count how much I love you. Shall I start cooking the chops, Jim?”

Jim suddenly snapped out of his daze. He wrapped Della in his arms.

Let’s give them a moment. Whether someone earns eight dollars a week or a million a year—does it really matter? A mathematician or a clever person might give you the wrong answer. The wise men brought expensive gifts, but that wasn’t the most important thing. This mysterious thought will make sense soon.

Jim took a small package from his coat pocket and placed it on the table.

“Don’t get me wrong, Dell,” he said. “Nothing like a haircut, a shave, or a shampoo could ever make me love you less. But if you open that package, you’ll understand why I was so shocked at first.”

With quick, eager fingers, Della tore off the string and paper. Then came a joyful scream—but it was quickly followed by tears and sobs, the kind only a woman can understand. Jim had to comfort her right away.

Because inside the package lay The Combs—the beautiful set of hair combs, with side and back pieces, that Della had admired for so long in a shop window on Broadway. They were made of pure tortoiseshell with jeweled edges, the perfect color to match her beautiful—but now missing—hair.

She knew they were expensive, and she had never actually hoped to own them. But now they were hers—only the hair they were meant to adorn was gone.

Still, she held them close to her heart, and after a while, she looked up at Jim with teary eyes and a smile. “My hair grows so fast, Jim!” she said.

Then, suddenly, she jumped up like a startled kitten. “Oh, oh!” she cried.

Jim hadn’t seen his gift yet! She held it out to him, her hands open and excited. The simple, solid chain seemed to glow, reflecting the warmth of her love and excitement.

“Isn’t it perfect, Jim? I searched all over town to find it. Now you’ll have to check the time a hundred times a day! Give me your watch—I want to see how it looks on it.”

But instead of handing her his watch, Jim sat down on the couch, leaned back, and smiled.

“Dell,” he said, “let’s put our Christmas presents away for now. They’re too special to use right away. I sold my watch to buy you the combs.” He grinned. “And now, how about cooking those chops?”

The Magi, as you know, were wise men—very wise men—who brought gifts to baby Jesus in the manger. They started the tradition of giving Christmas presents. Because they were wise, their gifts were probably well thought out—maybe even returnable, just in case.

And here, I’ve told you the simple story of two foolish young people who, in the most unwise way, gave up their greatest treasures for each other. But let me leave you with this thought: of all the people who give gifts, these two were the wisest. Of all those who exchange presents, they are the wisest. Everywhere, they are the wisest.

They are the Magi.