Tales in Hot Pink is a weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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"Take a seat," she sighs. "Sure," I agree. She seems like she's in an unusually sour mood. I sit in the chair obligingly and fold my hands nervously on my lap. She grabs a plastic drape off an adjacent chair and snaps it over my body, littering me with clumps of someone else's hair. Then she pulls the collar tight around my neck, tight enough to make it hard for me to breathe. "What do you want?" she asks. "A haircut," I answer quickly, trying to get enough oxygen to respond. "Yeah," she says impatiently, and I realize I should have considered the question more carefully. "What kind of haircut?" "Oh," I say. "Just shorter, I guess. Shorter would be good." "With a part?" "Yeah," I say. "A part to the side, and just shorter all around." "Use clippers on the side?" "Whatever's easiest," I say, hoping my agreeable nature will soften her mood. "Fine," she says, sighing unhappily again. She grabs a spray bottle and begins to fire it at my head. I believe the intent is dampen my hair, but most of the water gets in my eyes. I blink furiously, trying to regain my vision. With the drape on, I have lost the use of my arms. She stamps on the lever at the bottom of the chair and I drop to the ground. She grabs my head and pushes it forward. I take my cue and stay still as death. I'm afraid to move. My skull still stings from where her fingers seized my scalp. If I don't get a lollipop for this one, life isn't fair. "Do you guys still give out lollipops?" I ask, trying to smile, as if it's just a casual, carefree question. "No," she answers. She is trying to decide which fiendish edged device would be best suited for the task ahead of her. "I see," I smile, as if I had always considered giving out lollipops charming but unnecessary. But I'm thinking, Bastards. I'm thinking rotten, filthy, cheap Bastards. She snaps some prongs onto her clippers and gives it a few test revs, as if she's about to squeal out of the parking lot in a high performance automobile. "I like grape, myself," I say, trying to make conversation. "I almost choked and died on a lollipop once," she told me. "Ah," I say. I realize the topic of conversation must change, and change quickly. I nod to the photos on the wall. "Is that your boyfriend?" I ask, hoping that the magical healing power of love will remind her of what a beautiful thing life is. "He's a skeevy rat-faced son of a bitch," she tells me. "He looks it," I agree wholeheartedly. She runs the clippers up one side of my head, and then turns the freshly shaved portion toward the mirror. "Is that too short?" she asks. Every molecule of my body wants to scream, but my powerful self preservation instincts kick in. I remain cool as Milwaukee in February. "Hmm," I say, as if considering. "I'm not sure." She waits while I think. "Is that strip of white skin," I say, trying desperately to control my voice so that it won't crack, "Is that my scalp?" She shrugs, willing to let me draw my own conclusions. I consider the runway carved into my head for another second or two before giving a definitive answer. "I think that might be a little too short," I admit. She nods. "I think you're right," she agrees. She changes prongs. She starts on my head with new gear. The butchery continues for a minute or two before she finally decides to make conversation. "What do you do?" she asks. "I'm a CEO," I say, trying to appear pleasant as the clippers roll up one side of my head and down the other. "What do you do?" I ask. She pauses and looks at me, holding the clippers steady in her hand. "Oh," I say, nodding, "Right." Shaking her head with disbelief, she goes back to mowing the hair off my head in uneven strips. "Do you want to keep your sideburns?" she asks, just before I'm about to break into tears. "Yes," I choke out a reply. "Just a little shorter, please." So she attempts to shorten my sideburns. But she can't get them even. When she shortens one side, the other side is too long, so she shortens that one, but then that one's too short, so she needs to shorten the other side, but… "That's as good as I can get it," she sighs, exasperated, after ten interminable minutes. "That's fine," I say amicably. I look as if I'm wearing a bow. I have negative sideburns. She loosens the drape and the sudden rush of oxygen makes me dizzy. I stand from the chair, a little wobbly. She leads me to the cash register and rings up the total. The air conditioner above my head is rustling the peaks and valleys of my new hairdo. When she tells me the total, I pretend not to be paralyzed with shock and confusion. In order to convince her that I am still cool, cool as cubes in a plastic tray, I give her an obscenely large tip. After the assault and robbery is complete, I stumble to the car, where Christine is waiting for me. I get in, and pull the door shut behind me. She says nothing for the first few minutes. "When I saw you coming up to the car," she tells me finally, "I wasn't sure whether to lock the doors or give you spare change." I smile cheerfully. "Yeah," I sigh with satisfaction, running a hand through my new hair. "I'm pretty happy with it."
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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