Look at them, staring at me with their judgemental dead eyes.
Mocking me with their eternally perfect hair and their never faltering jawline.
There is something about wig shops and hairdressers that always brings out the worst in me. I guess that’s a sentence you’ve never heard before.
Do you remember the great arson epidemic of wig shops and hair dressers a few years back? Yeah, that was me. I stopped doing it, but the...err... flame is still burning within me. I’m self-medicating now: I’m taking a juniper berry ethanol based concentrate, in a dry quinine solution and a slice of cucumber. You people without medical knowledge might know this as a “gin and tonic”, though I assure you my use of it is entirely medically justified. See? (*Shows handwritten note presumably self-written or written by inhebriated general practitioner*)
While you, my trusted readership – consisting of a masturbating Russian trying to sell me Viagra, a Nigerian prince who wants to make me wealthy, and, last but not least, my trusty stalker who has probably been watching me while I punch this down (I don’t “type”, I punch; it’s a testosterone thing, you wouldn’t understand) – happily go about your day passing by wig shops and hairdressers alike, never even getting as much as a shiver rolling through your spine, I tend to start twitching whenever I’m approaching one, and that’s even before I consciously register their existence.
Being a man of science, I won’t claim that I have special powers, because then I’d be as fucked up as all of you (and especially YOU!), no there must simply be some trigger in the air that my nose registers, causing me to grow restless, violent, and I must admit, slightly aroused. Sadly, the arousal only exacerbates the first two emotions, which resulted in the fires, which resulted in my fleeing my home country, changing my name and my appearance (not the hair, obviously, no, I just wear a corset and fake moustache, fools everyone!).
Anyway... Something must have happened the last time I had my hair cut, something so shocking that my mind blocked it out completely, leaving a trauma deeply scarred in the depths of my, let’s be honest, massive brain. If only I could figure out what it was...
Either way, I cannot set foot in a hairdresser’s. Well, I can, but then there’s a good chance I’m holding a match a can of petrol.
Wig shops, for some reason, terrify me even more. Maybe because there are so many eyes looking at you, laughing at you and every petty thing you do. It’s an attitude that comes naturally to those with ever-perfect hair.
I never thought I’d be a man, or more specifically: an arsonist, on the run. The advice I got from some people that I trusted was as stupid as it was insulting:
“Turn yourself in, plead insanity, you’ll get off with a slap on the wrists!”
Maybe you also think I’m insane. But I’m not! I mean, would an insane person do this? *walks to bathroom, pees, washes hands, dries off hands, comes back* No, right?!
I’m passed the point of no return, I know. I realise I may never get another haircut for as long as I live, not even when the weight of my hair gives me whiplash, weighing my head down as if a heavy boulder is hanging around my scalp (why aren’t there any documented cases of this? It sounds like a cover-up; I can’t be the only one!).
And when it all falls out, you can count your life on it that I’d rather lick the toilet seat of a sleazy Berlin nightclub than go to a wig shop for a replacement. Chances are, by then all wig shops in a 50 km radius will have all mysteriously burnt down. Though that would probably mean I’d have to run away again (well, I do trust you, you Russian-Nigerian stalker, but you never know who reads these secret texts I write you).
And I just can’t deal with the stress another time.
It would just be SO bad for my hair!