Image: Pixabay

A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 2; see Day 1

[Poetry crashing into a short story]

“My toupee has blown away!” False Hairy screams.

“Everyone, please don’t move.” Maddie turns off the ceiling fan and apologizes, “I’m sorry, False Hairy, for forgetting some of us have hair that may go astray while the fan moves like a schizo UFO.”

“Is it not enough that I used to be called Hairy Harry during my hair days, and now I’m subjected to being False Hairy? Oh, my name mocks me so. . .” Harry’s soliloquy begins:

“To be hairy or hairless, what is it to be?
What form must I take for my identity?
Shall I have a mat to cover my pate,
Or shall I expose my real follicle state?
I lament for my scalp is exposed;
It makes me feel like a king deposed.”

False Hairy, whose real name is Harry, sobs. The group at a standstill, looks down the floor to look for the mop that passes for Harry’s top. A woman, whose real name is Rebecca, finds it and shouts, “Eureka.” She crowns Harry with his fake locks. He wipes his eyes and thanks her. She finds a compliment for him, “Leave it on for it is more effective than any sun blocks.”

Their eyes fix on each other a beat longer than typical for platonic members. As Harry feels the synthetic covering back on his head, his vigor returns like Samson. He finds the courage to indicate he digs her.

To be continued . . .