Sunday, December 6, 2009

Sunday Funday

"What did you do to my hair?"


  1. “What did you do to my hair?” I snarled, staring into the mirror at the green spikes were my well-kept brown part had been just this morning.

    “I did what I had to to keep you alive, you sorry sack of crap,” I snapped back.

    I was not satisfied with my answer. “And the nose ring? Was that necessary?”

    “Yes,” I growled in weary exasperation. “And it's not a ring, it's a piercing.”

    “And shaving off my eyebrows?”

    “Look!” I'd finally had enough of my nonsense. “Do you want to get out here alive or not?”

    I sighed and lowered my eyes meekly. “Yes.”

    “Then stop whining about your face and go get dressed in the clothes I picked up earlier.”

    Reluctantly, but obediently, I abandoned the mirror in the hotel bathroom and slunk into the bedroom. In the garbage can was the suit I'd been wearing for most of the day. On the bed was a pair of torn-up jeans I'd stolen from a homeless guy, and a denim vest I'd won in a pissing contest with a drunk biker. Next to the bed were a pair of boots; I didn't care to think about how I'd acquired those.

    Off came my boxers and my t-shirt. My instructions had been very clear. There were no undergarments in the world I was entering. Not clean ones anyway. So mine went off. I shuddered as I pulled on the well-used jeans, and actually felt a little nauseous since the homeless guy hadn't been wearing any underwear either. When I pulled on the best over my shirt-less body I winced a little. My chest still stung from having been freshly shaved. I stepped into the boots and I was ready to make my exit.

    I didn't like the look. I didn't feel natural in it, but I would be able to fake it for long enough to get past the snipers. That was all that really mattered at this point. I wasn't trying to pick up a date. I was trying to stay alive.

    The hotel was “that” kind of hotel. The kind where I'd gotten more looks when I'd entered in my suit than I did clomping through the halls in my new, retro punk look. I made no eye contact. I exchanged no greetings. I just went straight for the stairs.

    The stairs that would take me closer to the snipers.

    I went down three flights in the time it might normally take one, and then paused to catch my breath and try to let my heart rate slow down.

    “You're safe,” I whispered. “Just relax.”

    “I'm trying,” I assured myself.

    Taking one more deep breath, I existed the stairwell into the lobby, and glanced around quickly. No sign of trouble. I knew the snipers were outside. At least I was clear inside. My disguise had let me get this far. All I had left was a set of doors and five city blocks.

    I tossed cash at the hotel manager to pay up for my room and then stepped outs–

  2. "What did you do to my hair?"

    I'd been dreading the question, but ever since the discovery, I knew it was one I'd end up answering.

    "Don't worry about that," I said. "You need help."

    "I do now. Do you have any idea how many years it took?"

    I didn't like that look. This might not end well.

    "I thought you cared for me."

    "I do," I said. "You can't keep living this way. It isn't healthy."

    "What do you know about it? It was a mistake to let you get this close."

    "Don't say that." Instinctively, I ran my fingers through my own hair. It was longer than I wished at the moment. I stumbled back, kicking up a cloud of ash.

    "Have you seen a doctor?" I asked.

    "Doctors. Nurses. Lawyers. Even friends. They all helped. And you ruined it. All their contributions up in flames. What were you thinking?"

    "I'm sorry," my voice trembled. "I just..."

    "Well, I'll just need to make a fresh start."

    He pulled shears from his back pocket and I backed into the concrete wall. The room smelled of burnt hair, but I'm sure he only smelled my fear.

    A few minutes later I crouched in the corner. My freshly shorn scalp was covered in nicks. Blood dripped down my smooth head.

    I looked on in horror and wonder as my locks were afixed to the wall. I wondered how long it had taken. Years? Maybe a lifetime. Certainly a long time to cover an entire room, including furniture, in human hair.

  3. "What did you do to my hair?"

    Doctor Geisteskrank looked up, the smoked goggles giving him an insectile appearance. "Hm?"

    "My hair. What happened to it?"

    "Why don't you ask it?" said Geisteskrank, returning to his work. Sparks flared.

    "Wzklp?" My hair walked into the room, cocking its head to the side quizzically.

  4. “What did you do to my hair?” As soon as I’d opened my eyes I knew something was amiss.

    “Which one?”

    “The one that used to be right here!” I pointed to the top of my forehead, directly above my right eyebrow.

    “Jorge needed to borrow one and yours was the closest match.”

    “I will kindly remind you that I told you not to f*** with my person while I’m sleeping.” Dammit, I was going to have to follow through on that threat.

    “Jesus, what’s the big deal? It’s one hair, for crap’s sake.” The idiot actually had the audacity to shrug.

    “The big deal is as follows: 1. you went against my wishes. 2. you touched my body without permission. 3. that one hair is potent enough to spawn a small town overnight.

    “I know. It’s amazing.” His eyes were glow sticks in the dim room. “Come take a look a what we’ve got already.”