THE ORIGINAL BAD HAIR DAY, REDUX

The Original Bad Hair Day Redux

By Andrew Paul Grell

“Definitely big butts. It’s an evolution thing. A guy wants to know if he puts something in there, she’ll be able to push it out when it’s finished. And that she’s got enough stored to get it done.”

“Maybe, Uriel. But how many women died from getting industrial silicone injected into their asses?” Stacy was all about the inherent beauty of the natural body. Any natural body, including hers. “Besides, it’s eyelashes. They can communicate more. Whaddayah think, Meddie?”

“None of us are picking boobs? Everyone likes boobs. Men, women, straight, gay. Boobs are universally adored. But this isn’t the real question. The real question is why the burden of morphological sexual selection in Homo sapiens is overly tipped onto the distaff side. It’s the opposite of almost every other species. It’s male peacocks with those ridiculous tails. Male sheep, cattle, moose, and deer with the horns. Male birds sing the mating calls. Every Red Carpet on TV is a competition for which woman can show the most flesh while the men wear tuxes with precious little difference between them. Why is it that women have to spend so much time, money and stress on sexual attraction when there are packs of men roaming the streets just bursting to do some pink spelunking, getting their stalagmites into a cave. Any cave. Did either of you read the technical report Percy gave us? ‘Auto Tonsorial Locomotion Powered by Cranial Heat and Protein Surface Tension.’ Jesus, this guy is a hair stylist and now he’s a physical chemist. So, which one of us is gonna do it?”

“You read the paper, Meddie. Maybe you should do it.”

“I don’t know. I’m still on probation, that might screw up any licensing that comes along from this. On the other hand, Percy’s shop sponsors a bunch of public service announcements. If I do it, on-screen with the haircut, that might count for my community service.”

The discussion was taking place in the Cribbage Room in the lower level of the hardest-to-get-an-appointment Salon in the city. Back in the 30’s, the building had been a bordello as classy as the salon is now and just as hard to get an appointment. No cribbage games had ever been played there, although the facility housed plenty of cribs. The point of cribbage was to get the pegs into the holes. The room, Tiffany lamps, a private single-slab, old-growth hardwood bar, Art Deco chaise lounges, was where the selections were made. And now, the salon’s top three patrons, influencers and social media starlets, were involved in a selection for whose head would be the host of, hopefully, the next new thing in hairstyles. Each of them would love to pop the cherry on a true advance in hairstyling. None of them were comfortable with what the artist’s rendition of the final product looked like.

“I wonder why it’s just a sketch, and not a photo of a test cut on a real woman’s head,” Uriel put out. “Do you think Percy killed them all to keep the style a surprise?”

“The hair world is pretty cut-throat. But I don’t think Percy would resort to physical liquidation,” Stacy ventured. “So how are we going to do this? Rock, paper scissors? Eenie Meenie Miney Moe? Draw straws?”

“Not a chance. There is a best answer for who would be the best guinea pig. We just have to figure it out. So, for example, which one of us would look best with dreadlocks? Isn’t that the fundamental basis for the style?”

“Uriel, now that you mention it, you’re the tallest. Tall girl, long hair. Dreadlocks are supposed to be long, aren’t they? How about it? Or are we going to keep going on like this?”

“Uriel, Stacy, shouldn’t we see if one of us wants to volunteer? If only one of us wants to do it, she should go for it. Let’s make some use out of that bar, then we’ll get back to the selection. I think the Greeks used to debate questions sober, then the next night, debate them drunk. I think we can abbreviate that and decide we already debated it sober. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” they each declared.

“James, bring us your finest decision-making wine.  Three bottles,” Meddie ordered.

A bottle and a half in, the potential test pilots ran out of dish and complaints about work, politics, and men and finally got around to the matter at hand, which was that that still couldn’t come up with an algorithm to pick the right one of them to be sacrificed to the Awful and Unforgiving Gods of Keratin. Uriel was still only two and a quarter sheets to the wind, and she made a case that Meddie should be put forward. Stacy seconded the motion, despite the fact that there was nowhere near a quorum sufficient to decide anything.

“Meddie is a victim of society, punished for being a victim. How terrible is that? She volunteered to help set up the church bazaar at St. Athena’s. The priest asked her to stay for a while, somehow the communion wine made an appearance, something inappropriate happened, Meddie left and started driving home. She was rear-ended by another woman who happened to be an aspiring actress; the other car’s airbag inflated and caused some damage to the potential thespian’s nose. And because Meddie was one red hair over the legal limit, she’s the one who got punished. I say, let Meddie rise and speak, she’s the one this could do the most good for, if she wants it, let her have it.”  The speech left the other two women in vinous tears. After she dried her eyes and repaired her makeup, Meddie stood up and declared, “I accept the challenge.” 

Her friends escorted her out of the depths of the Cribbage Room and up to the top-level pro salon, where Percy awaited a test subject. Everyone else in the room was banished forthwith, leaving Meddie alone with the tonsorial Hierophant. Three hours later, the silence was broken. Percy took Meddie for a spin up and down the little runway the professional models used to see how they should walk with whatever hairstyle they had for their particular gigs.

“Well,” the artist asked the subject, “How do you like it, what do you think?”

“Hmmm… Let’s see. My hair is naturally wavy; you’ve been doing me for years; you know I’m a knockout with a bouncy-hair look. If the dreadlocks don’t move around too much, the style just looks bouncy with a touch of intrigue and mystery. What do you think, Maestro?”

“Meddie, I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Prepare to be a star. Or at least a top-level influencer. Take this.” The magician handed her a discreet Bluetooth earpiece, easily occluded by her hair, and a stack of Percy’s Salon business cards.

“Keep a running log of streaming notes while you’re walking around, reactions, impressions, any problems that might come up. Use your discretion about who should get a card if they ask about your hair. Be visible but discreet. Don’t do anything differently from what you’d ordinarily do walking from here to there, getting in or out of a cab, having a nosh. Hold off on the office until Tuesday, if that’s not a problem. Shouldn’t be, you own most of the place, don’t you?”

“No, not a problem at all. Keep Uriel and Stacy busy for a while, I don’t want to be distracted. Can you have Edna walk me out for a couple of blocks?” The little deaf coat check woman saw all and judged nothing, except when there is something in dire need of judgment.

“Test pilot’s log, hair date April 17^th. Proceeding west from the Salon on Wannamaker Place toward Broadway. No funny looks yet. One smiling child, two other children, different parent, visibly scared. Crossing the street to the west side of Broadway. Heading south the 3^rd Street. Edna is tugging at my arm. She’s tapping the side of her nose and I follow the direction it’s pointing. At two o’clock, I see what the Incel community would label a ‘Chad.’ Great, now I have to wonder where I am between a Becky and a Stacy. Can’t wait to tell that to my Stacy. Chad is an ‘obvious ogler,’ the sort of man who thinks a woman feels complimented when she’s being ocularly fondled. Edna’s weathervane nose is pointing directly at the man’s crotch, which was enlarging by the second. We’re still moving south without acknowledging his presence. He is standing stock-still with his flag about half-staff. I’m getting a feeling that the Chad is actually immobilized.

“Hair log, continued. On this side of Broadway, I feel less different from the de jour freak show and the poseurs trying to look like them. We’re sharing sidewalk space with some NYU co-eds—Percy, do they still call girl college students co-eds—and Edna points out a trio of suits. I feel like the zebra with the red paint. Percy, if you had the chops to write that paper about the hairstyle, you probably know this. Predators go for the weak, the odd, the stragglers. If you shoot a red paintball pellet at a zebra and then wait till the lions wander by, the big cats go for the zebra with the difference. Every time. Bottom line, Percy, I think I’m getting the reaction you’re looking for.

“One of the co-eds just slinked up to me. She’s a mousey sort of hard-body. Must be a California thing. If she just had something a bit extra, she might could go all the way. I give her a card and she thanks me profusely. I turned to see her walk away; I was right, she’s got a rear end as bouncy as my new hair, and if she had that style, you could be setting a monster loose in Manhattan. And fuck you, Percy, for making me objectify other women. That’s 90 years of feminism down the freaking shoot. The suit trio is still there. The one with the Fedora must have really liked me; his hat wound up on the sidewalk and he hasn’t picked it up yet.

“We’re turning onto West 3^rd Street, heading for the park. Edna’s tugging at my sleeve and in he best Gallaudet deaf voice, she advises me that it’s both that he has a gun in his pocket and also that he’s happy to see me. We cut across the pedestrian plaza with the chi-chi shops and international eateries on Mercer. As we pass the Citibike station, I see a young kid who just took out a bike look at me, then look down at his pants and re-dock the bike. Odd. We were approached by three different women asking who did my hair. Only one was card-worthy—and fuck you again, Percy—but how could I not give cards to the others?

“We’re entering the park. The fountain is now working again. A small cadre of vagabonds, probably Rainbow folks, is bathing with soap on the outside of their clothes. One of the women asks me where she could get hair like mine. I give her a card and recall that some of the “crusties” are trust fund kids pissing off their parents. Kids, moms, and NYU students frolic in the fountain; all of the ogling taking place is from the hard-core dedicated wet t-shirt appreciator crowd; no one is ogling me. I must have reached a place where I am ow just normal.

“We reach the semi-circle performance niches. As we walk by, one of the buskers asks me if I want a job with his comic juggling posse. I decline. Three niches later, the conductor of Sgt. Paprika’s Kazoo Orchestra invites me to join up. He says that anyone can play the kazoo.

“We’re heading back on Waverly Place. You won’t believe this, Percy. The suit guys are still where we left them on Broadway. The hat on the sidewalk is filled with money, yen, euros, and even some dollars. They did kind of look like a performance art piece. I wave at them and get no reaction at all. Maybe they’re not breaking character. Okay, now you really won’t believe this. ‘Chad’ is still where we left him. Still frozen to the spot.

“Final Hair Log entry. I’m bailing. Heading back to base. Percy, you better come up with something right quick that explains this

Perhaps the Cribbage Room hosted a meeting once every two months. Today it held two. Percy was obligated to call his usually silent partner and financial backer, Paul E. Dectes, and heaven help you if you leave out the E. Paul said two words,” Fix it,” and left. Uriel, Stacy and Meddie were left to their own devices on the top deck. Finally, Percy came up to meet them. He was holding something rectangular covered by a customer robe.

“So?” That was all Meddie was able to get out.

“This was a huge mistake,” the maestro declared as he tossed the covering off the mirror he was holding. “Look at yourself, Meddie. Your hair looks like snakes growing out of your head. A terrible mistake, I’m sorry, but we have to fix it.”

Percy, Edna, Stacy, and Meddie walked down Broadway, Meddie now with a THX-1138 head. Chad was gone. Just to make sure, they turned onto Third Street. The suit guys were gone, but the hat, still dilled with cash, remained.