THE RIGHT STUFF

                            HAIR  TODAY...

So I was sitting talking to a friend (who shall remain nameless because I can't remember her name), when she leaned closer and said "Hey, there's a big hair on your chin."  She reached across to brush it away and said "Oh, it's attached."  I looked at her in shock and said "WHAT?", and I could feel my heart racing and my colon tightening.  She tried to pull it off but it was firmly attached to my face, so I asked her to describe it.  Apparently it was quite long, slightly curly and black.  Well, I reeled backwards.  Then I reeled forwards.  Then I reeled from side to side.  But then the Irish have always been famous for their reels. 

 I had never noticed it but there it was for all the world to see.  I was livid!  I can't get a hair to grow on my head and here they were proliferating on my chin.  ON MY CHIN, for Christ's sake!  I had a hair on my chinny chin chin!  

I mean, there's my pubes - great, thick, healthy, swarthy buggers that would make any pirate proud, and I have candy floss growing on my head.  I need several construction tools and at least two days of uninterrupted work just to make a dent in my pubes and they never get to see the light of day or get treated to conditioners or exotic oils.  And yet the hair on my head gets massaged and oiled and conditioned and washed in only the finest shampoos made from the anus skin of Mediterranean baboons and it floats around on my head like a tumbleweed blowing across the dusty streets of Tombstone just before the gunfight at the OK Corral. 

Or just afterwards.  Or just about any time, really.  (I just mentioned the OK Corral to introduce some much-needed excitement because, let's be honest, bugger all has happened so far and we're already at the end of the second paragraph.)

So I rushed home as fast as my legs could carry me, grabbed my tweezers and set about removing that interloper as soon as possible, if not sooner.  It was about 6 feet long!  And as soon as I gripped it with the tweezers, it started fighting back and resisting my efforts to have it depart the general area of my face and my mentum in particular (look it up - I had to).  

There followed a fierce battle of wills - me pulling and swearing like a demented devil-worshiper and the hair holding on for dear life and refusing to budge.  Over and back we went - sometimes the fight going my way and victory seeming to be within my grasp.  And at other times it looked like all was lost and the hair would not only stay on my face, but grow and reproduce - possibly even inviting other hairs to join it in its new home - until I was left with a beard and would be obliged to join the circus so as to avoid being pointed at in the street and having people scream and run away (which happens anyway, but you get where I'm going with this). 

Well, after about 6 hours I was drained but I could tell that the hair was beginning to tire also.  That gave me the strength to try once more.  With one leg on the toilet seat and the other in the bathtub I called out "Allah is great!", and yanked as hard as I could.  The hair gave way and was removed.  I fell backwards into the bath, receiving a glancing blow from the tap and pulling the shower curtain down on top of myself. The cat, who had witnessed the entire astonishing episode from the safety of the hall, leaped on top of me and piddled on my head.  I was exhausted, bruised, battered and smelled of cat pee.  But that fucking hair was gone!  

No, it was actually gone!  I checked the tweezers but it wasn't there.  I looked around on the counters and the floor but it was nowhere to be seen!  The little bastard had escaped!  I searched frantically all over the bathroom - I combed the area (I even brushed and styled it), but there was no sign of the offender.  I grabbed a flashlight and got down on my knees and scoured every inch of the place but to no avail.  I could feel its little eyes watching me from some nook or cranny - could hear its little voice laughing mockingly at my vain attempts to find it - could feel its breath on the back of my neck.  But I couldn't find it. 

I think it must have escaped through the air vent, much the same way as that guy in the Mission Impossible movies gets away from the bad guys.  (Which reminds me - how come those guys never think of looking in the air vent?  They put Tom Cruise in an empty room with no windows and only one door which is locked from the outside AND AN AIR VENT.  They come back in to beat the living crap out of him and he's gone.  And they all stand around looking confused.  SOMETIMES HE'S STILL IN THE AIR VENT LOOKING AT THEM!!!  One time he was hanging from the ceiling because he hadn't actually made it to the air vent and they still couldn't see him!)  

Anyway, for all I know it's still there (the hair, not Tom Cruise) watching me as I go about my day whistling a happy tune or sitting quietly knitting myself a bike helmet.  Watching and waiting.  Waiting and watching.  Wait watching.  Waiting for the moment when it will sneak up on me and re-attach itself to my chin.  And that's why I now wear my underwear on my head.