Why don’t people look like this any more?
Story I wrote circa 2009. Best read with Dance of the Hours playing in the background.
Freshly awake from utopian dreams of complete contentment, Rob marched straight into his bathroom. A long and enormous groan erupted from the man’s lungs after a glance in the mirror.
His hair was a complete mess. It had no direction whatsoever, not a hint of organization. Even a caveman could sprawl together something that resembled an acceptable appearance. Seeing that mishmash of curls and chunks disheartened the guy by a million. He had to fix the jumbled wreck somehow.
Opening the drawer directly beneath his sink, Rob fingered around with both hands until he sensed his two old pals, Dr. Brush and Fabio the Comb. Gripping each lethal weapon tightly, he initiated the spar by lunging both to the top of his head. His foe apparently reacted on the spot with a swift parry, for his hands were empty upon withdrawal.
They must have been snatched by relentless jaws, thought Rob, feeling as though he was mutating into some wretched medusa. Though he suffered a minor defeat, the fight was not to be given up so easily. The enduring warrior knocked aside the door to his medicine cabinet, reached inside, and grabbed something squishy and phallic. Of course! His trusty bottle of Tex Streiss gel would certainly do the trick. Rob squeezed out a generous portion of the sticky substance onto the palm of his hand and smoothed it out as much as he could. He then rubbed it vigorously into his filthy foe.
His attempt proved to be futile. After a focused reading of the details on the bottle, Rob realized the gel expired a good three years ago. Nothing would convince it to detach itself from his hand. Tossing the useless container into the trash bin, the provoked fighter shed his pajamas, pulled the shower curtain aside, and stepped into his haven of cleanliness.
The final battle commenced. In righteous anger, Rob seized a firmly implanted lock of his disgusting hair and yanked upward. “You’ve fought valiantly, and I appreciate the effort and tact you’ve put forth,” he exclaimed with dignity. “But all ends here. Soak and suffer, fiend!”
With a great creak, he violently turned the bathtub’s knob and pulled the trigger to release the water. A short, intensely warm sting erupted from the shower head. Then another. Then maybe a few more insignificant spurts before the waterworks totally shut off.
Rob sat there, naked, scratching his hair (which had not received any of the shower water) and analyzing his predicament. He finally reached a conclusion, put his night clothes back on, and attempted to rinse the gel off of his hand. His enemy was one he would have to accept as a part of his everyday being, even in the utopia for which he longed. Hopefully through experiencing whatever the world had to throw at him, he would come to terms with his appearance and love his hair as a true friend.
Five months later, Rob went completely bald.
Chris Spirit B.