Frazzled Hair

Frazzled and unruly, my hair, like my soul, is in need of moisturizer. Hairdressers, with their touching of my hair, and sharp sharp scissors, are favourite among the fantasy professions. Sometimes, if they are women, which they usually are, their busts rub up against my face to get at the hair at the very top of my head. Sometimes they have to sit on my lap to achieve the same end (or so they say). Sometimes both happens. Actually that only happened once, because, as I later found out, I was in some sort of a strip joint/hairdressing hybridization.

With all the touching going on, the blunt manner of many hairdressers is overlooked, but painfully remembered. For instance, one lady told me my hair was like hay, as did the spiritualist advise me of my soul.

“Horses like it though, right? Right?” I asked them each respectively, but apparently having a horse eat your soul is not a top priority, and may come with harmful effects.

“Not unless you ride the horse after! The horse takes you to the magical gates of freedom and paradise, right!? RIGHT!?” But yelling does nothing to help you prove your point.

Hairdressers, though, are usually narrow minded with only cutting on their minds. The hay sayer, although somewhat reluctant at first, later had a wild smile on her face as the hay went flying. She put her i-pod on, and with swift gusto and wearing a dignified face imagined she were in fact slaying some kind of enemy in a duel. My ear was almost lopped off, I swear to God. The high, though, from the chopping, had gone to her head, and to dispel any further complaints on my part she jabbed me in the cheek with the sharp end of the scissors. I complained no more.

She finished the haircut by slapping some goop on the top of my head to get rid of the frazzle. She advised me to buy some leave in conditioner that she had made in the back of her shop. The ingredients read: Death, but that didn’t deter me. In fact, it drew my attention to the fog coming from underneath a red curtain in the back, and I would later go on to explore. The leave-in conditioner not only tamed my hair, but inclined me to speak with a British accent everyday at noon. I have since stopped using it, much to the chagrin of the British friends I met during high tea. Last time I saw them, I called out with my jarring accent. They flinched, and one or two spit on the ground. A headache would develop on account of my lack of caffeine. I refused to have high tea by myself.