Hairific: Fried Day


Image: Pixabay

A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 5, see Day 4

 [Poetry dominates short story]          

A man known as Cowlick comes out of the one restroom and raises his voice, “There’s no fire. I, uh, I lit a match because . . . to freshen the air. . .” He scowls at the woman known as Singed, who stands close to the restroom, speaking directly to her. “I didn’t know we have a human smoke detector.”

Taken somewhat aback, Singed replies, “Don’t fault me for my vigilance. Ever since I burned my hair with a curling iron, I quickly scent any hint of smoke.  As I passed the restroom door, my nose picked up an odor not unlike the day of my hair disaster, though I’ll admit yours had a much stronger smell of sulfur.”

The man’s face reddens, as a hush falls in the room.

“Hey, no muss day,” the man who goes by Two-tone assures him.

“No muss day,” a woman pseudo-named as Wispy also chimes in.

Soon everyone lets him know they understand he meant no harm. They go back to complimenting their newest member. After the last supporter leaves, Maddie locks the door and goes to her desk, which is tucked in a corner. She takes out her journal to write:

Another hairific day,
Could be horrific,
Sometimes terrific,
It’s all about hair not going our way.

No matter which weekday,
It always seems like a fried day.
Right now I feel like toast,
Ready to be buttered and nuttered
By my significant other.

I look forward to the weekend,
When my body and spirit has time to mend,
Then come Monday, I’m back sitting on my tush
For our enlightening meetings at Haironymous Bush.

Ohn, Ohn, Ohn . . .

No muss day!

The End of a Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days. To start, go to Day 1.

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