The Age of Amy: Mad Dogs and Makeovers

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  The mirror reflected Ravi’s sadness returning.

  “Expecting a busy day today?” I asked.

  His thoughts had drifted elsewhere. “What?”

  “Today’s appointments.”

  “Appointments?”

  It was time to end this verbal Ping Pong match. “Where’s Alec?”

  His mournful eyes met mine in the mirror. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Amy. A terrible thing has happened. Alec is in the hospital.”

  I abruptly sat up. “What is it? Is he okay?”

  Ravi settled me back into the chair. “It was late last night. I called to Alec in his room. He didn’t answer. Then I knocked on his door. Again, nothing. When I saw that the door was locked, I broke it down. I found him laying on his bed, unconscious. On the floor was an empty bottle of prescription painkillers. He had taken the whole bottle, Amy, the whole bottle!”

  I bit down on my lip to keep from crying. “And?”

  “Doctors say he’ll be okay, thank God.”

  I was short of breath and numb down to my toes. The PTSD demons had mercilessly attacked Alec in the night, and I was the one who set them loose. I was so sure that I could help him, but like rescuing a drowning man without knowing how to swim, my ignorance nearly cost Alec his life.

  “I did this to him!” I said. “It was me!”

  “No, Amy. It was his illness.”

  “You’re wrong. It’s my fault.”

  “Please, don’t blame yourself.”

  “Listen to me! Alec and I had a long talk yesterday—a good talk. He opened up to me about everything. I helped relieve him of his grief, but I couldn’t relieve his loneliness. I hurt him, Ravi. I hurt him bad!”

  Ravi stepped back and took a long look at me. “I understand,” he said. “Let’s wash your hair.”

  My lip was still quivering as he leaned my head back into the basin.

  “I’m such a stupid ass,” I said.

  “Shh! Try to relax.”

  The warmth of the water flowing through my hair was calming. I was breathing easier. Ravi’s gentle touch on my scalp brought on that sleepy feeling. I had just started to closed my eyes, when the water suddenly turned scorching hot!

  I leaped out of the chair and dashed across the room. “What the hell are you doing?” I yelled. But Ravi ignored me, as if he hadn’t heard a word I said. He remained hunched over the sink, the soapy water splashing over the sides. Then I realized that someone else was in my seat. However impossible that was, I moved closer to have a look.

  The other person in the chair was . . . me!

  This had to be a dream. I had fallen asleep, and my twisted imagination was taking over.

  I heard a crackling noise above my head. Looking up, sparks were flying from the light fixtures. Out the window, the daylight had turned to night. A howling wind rattled the front door like a massive storm was approaching. It was a little frightening, but I kept telling myself, dreams can’t hurt you, even one as real as this.

  Feeling water between my toes, I looked at the floor. My dripping wet hair was forming a puddle under me. “Hey Ravi,” I said, “Where’s the mop? Cleanup on aisle five.”

  Looking down again, the water had risen over my ankles, and was rapidly filling the room like a dam had just burst.

  The wind outside now whipped around at hurricane strength. Lightening flashed behind the window blinds.

  I tapped Ravi on the shoulder. “How long is this dream gonna last?” I asked. He turned around, but it wasn’t his face I saw. It was Alec’s! This didn’t surprise me. Dreams are always unpredictable, even more so when you’re under emotional stress.

  “What are you doing here?” I shouted, over the roaring thunder. “You’re in the hospital.”

  “You sure about that?” he yelled back. “Does this look like a hospital to you?”

  Suddenly, the lights went out. The violent wind blew open the front door. Water rushed in like a raging river. Now up to my knees in floodwater, I struggled to steady myself against the strong current.

  Through the open door floated a rubber inner tube. Lying in it was Alec, happily splashing around like a kid at a water park—and he had two good legs!

  “It’s almost over!” he hollered, as he sailed past me.

  A loud crash, and the shop windows shattered into little pieces. I closed my eyes and screamed, while shielding myself from the flying glass.

  Finally, the storm passed. It was quiet. I heard the distant calling of song birds. My hair was now floating gently on a tropical breeze: the warm air from Ravi’s blow dryer.

  Opening my eyes, I was sitting comfortably in the barber chair. The morning light streamed in through the unbroken windows, and the floor was bone dry.

  With a reassuring grin, Ravi asked, “How do you feel?”

  “I just had the weirdest dream,” I said.

  He turned off his hair drier. “It seems that way sometimes.”

  “What does?”

  His hesitation to answer worried me. “What did you do to me?” I demanded. “Why did you scald me with that hot water?”

  “It has a burning effect when you’re not use to it.”

  “Used to what?”

  Ravi went to the shelf above the rinse basin and held up a shampoo bottle. Its handwritten label read Guilt Remover. “I shampooed your hair with this. It washes away guilt.”

  “You can’t be serious. That’s not possible.”

  “But, it is! I created it so that people wouldn’t have to live with their guilt. Think of it as a kind of emotional reset button. Plus, it has a lovely bouquet, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ravi was talking nonsense, but one thing was true: The guilt I suffered over Alec’s attempted suicide was gone. In its place was a conviction that I had done all I could—that no one person should accept all the blame.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s assume your shampoo does what you’re telling me. Why invent it?”

  “At some time in our lives, we’ve all done or said something we later regretted. Not everyone handles guilt the same way. Some simply ignore it. Others try to redeem themselves by making amends. Then there are those who find living with it unbearable. Those are the ones I try to help. You took on the blame for Alec’s attempt to take his own life. That’s a terrible burden for anyone to carry. You needed the Guilt Remover if anyone did.”

  So explains the parade of sorrowful customers. After committing some deplorable act, they come to Ravi seeking relief from their guilt. No wonder everyone left the shop so happy.

  Ravi flung off my barber cape and lowered the chair. “Let me show you something.”

  He led me to the door with the digital lock. Entering the security code, it opened into another hallway. On the walls hung framed certificates—not from barber colleges, but famed universities, each recognizing Ravi for his achievements in scientific research. Among his other accolades were degrees in Chemistry, Biophysics, and Pharmacology. All were inscribed with Ravi’s name in bold letters.

  “You haven’t always been a barber, have you?” I said.

  “Let’s just say it’s not my calling.” He opened the door at the end of the hall. “This is my real vocation.”

  Switching on the light, inside was a huge science laboratory. It resembled those you see in TV medical dramas, filled with lab equipment and scientific instruments. Odd-shaped flasks and glass beakers were filled with colorful liquids. Cabinet shelves held bottles of chemical compounds with long names I couldn’t begin to pronounce. Among the hi-tech instruments were super-sensitive microscopes, scales that measured weight in micrograms, and those contraptions that spin test tubes like a high-speed carnival ride.

  “I’m impressed,” I said, “But I’m confused. If your discovery is such a scientific breakthrough, why put it in shampoo? Wouldn’t it be easier to just give someone a pill?”

  “A pill wouldn’t be nearly as effective. Think about it. The hair on your head is just inches away from your brain. My formula penetrate
s the skull, and who else gets that close to your noodle but a brain surgeon or a hairdresser?”

  There was a kind of madness to everything I was hearing. A shampoo that changes your personality was like something out of a Frankenstein novel. But Ravi had clearly done his homework, and his lab definitely wasn’t a place where you’d find a mad scientist.

  “I know it’s none of my business,” I said, “but, what’s your shampoo’s active ingredient?”

  Ravi pointed to a large black and white photograph on the wall. It showed him standing on the banks of a muddy lake, surrounded by jungle foliage. Posing with him were members of a primitive tribe. Bare-breasted women carried babies on their hips. Bashful children poked their heads around bamboo trees. Naked men concealed their privates behind large leaves.

  But a happier group photo you never saw. There were smiles all around—including Ravi, wearing an explorer outfit, complete with pith helmet.

  “That’s me in the Brazilian rainforest,” he explained. “I joined an expedition seeking to learn about these remote people, known as the Wickagua tribe. Unlike the savagery of some primitive people, their whole culture was based on kindness. There were no words for war or hate in their language.”

  Ravi pointed out one native in particular, wearing the biggest grin of all. “When we first arrived, his hands were bound behind his back. Two husky men led him into this lake in full view of the tribe. The man struggled desperately to free himself, screaming like he was walking the last mile to the electric chair. Waist-deep in water, a tribesman dipped his head back into the lake. When he came back up for air, he was laughing uncontrollably, like he had just inherited a million dollars. The cheering tribe could be heard for miles.”

  “Something in the water, am I right?” I said.

  “Exactly! But we didn’t know what. The tribal council permitted us to bring a gallon of it back home for testing. Being the only biochemist on the trip, I was allowed to conduct my own studies. After years of experimentation, I was able to extract the water’s miraculous properties.”

  “And so, the Guilt Remover.”

  “Yes, but that’s only the beginning!”

  Ravi keyed open a secure metal cabinet. Inside were more shampoo bottles with funny-sounding names, each with its own mind-altering capabilities:

  The Grief Reliever eliminated sorrow. Anyone grieving the loss of a loved one can move on, free from heartache.

  The Hate Slayer removed bigotry. Tolerance is restored in people harboring racial, religious, or other prejudices.

  The Temper Tweaker eradicated aggression. Violent criminals released back into society become peaceful citizens.

  “Very cool,” I said, “but how can you afford to do this? You’re a barber.”

  “You’d be surprised what people are willing to spend for my services. What do you think paid for this laboratory?”

  Our conversation was abruptly interrupted by the sound of barking. Scraps was awake! Scampering down the hallway, he invaded the laboratory, yelping his mean little head off. I snatched him up into my arms.

  Uncapping a bottle of Temper Tweaker, Ravi poured a small amount into the palm of his hand.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  Ravi worked the solution into the fur on Scraps’ head.

  “Don’t hurt him!” I cried. “You do, and I’ll report you to the ASPC—”

  All of a sudden, the barking stopped. I felt a wet tongue on my hand. Scraps was licking me! For the first time since rescuing him, I was able to pet my dog without fear of losing a finger.

  “You won’t have any problem with that mutt again,” said Ravi. “He’ll be a gentle lap dog from now on.”

  “This is incredible! The whole world should know about this.”

  “That’s the whole idea. Independent studies have already declared my shampoos safe and effective. Medical journals will soon be featuring my discoveries. All that’s left is FDA approval, and they’re looking at samples as we speak.”

  Returning his shampoo to the cabinet, there were only a dozen or so more bottles. “I hope that isn’t all you have,” I said. “Satisfying worldwide demand is going to take a little more than that.”

  Ravi led me out into the back alley to a huge metal container. He opened a padlock and swung the solid doors open. Inside was a slew of 50-gallon drums, each one marked Guilt Remover.

  “All this from one gallon of jungle water?” I said.

  “A tiny amount, mixed with Hyaluronic Acid and alcohol, then diluted with tap water really stretches the soup.”

  “That leaves just one final question: Why are you showing me all this?”

  “I have one more shampoo that I’m still developing, and I’m going to need your help testing it.”

  “Why? What does it do?”

  “Cures PTSD.”

  Chapter 9

  Mirror, Mirror

  No one spent more time at the public library than Hubert did. If he couldn’t find what he needed there, he scoured the shelves of used book stores. People have this delusion that everything we need to know can be found online. Hubert knew better. He dove into bookshelves like a pirate digging for buried treasure, and never failed to come up with a gem.

  With his superior research skills, I recruited Hubert to help me learn more about the Wickagua tribe. I had already Googled those primitive people and found very little information. My Wiki searches produced even less. But while I was clicking links, Hubert had uncovered a goldmine that no one knew about, and wanted to show it to me in person.

  With eyes wide with excitement, Hubert entered my room with a book under his arm. It was a musty old thing, with worm-eaten pages and a binding that would crumble in your hands if you weren’t careful. Published in 1912, it was written by renowned South American explorer Arthur Gimbal, titled Atonement in the Jungle.

  “Where did you find this?” I asked Hubert.

  “At a flea market,” he said. “I got a lead on a guy selling antique tribal masks, and this was among them. There’s a whole chapter on the Wickaqua and their customs. Here’s what I learned.”

  Hubert whipped out his notes.

  “First of all, the name Wickagua literally means, ‘to bathe the wicked.’ The author writes about what he calls ‘a baptism-like ritual’—the same ceremony Ravi observed. But, messing with people’s minds wasn’t the only supernatural power these guys were playing with.”

  Hubert cracked open his book. I nearly fell over from the smell of its moldy pages. An old photo showed the superstitious people kneeling on the ground in prayer. But, the object of their worship wasn’t a golden calf. They were bowing to a mirror—a big, round mirror!

  “I’ve seen that!” I said, excited. “It’s the mirror in Ravi’s barbershop.”

  Hubert pulled the book away from me. He didn’t like being interrupted, especially when showing off his brilliance. “If you don’t mind, may I continue?”

  “Sorry.”

  “European colonization of the rainforest was underway about this time. Gimbal figured that the mirror must have fallen off a river boat, floated downstream, and later found washed ashore by the tribe. The primitive people had never seen a mirror before, and didn’t know what to make of it.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “And seeing themselves in the reflection was a kind of miracle. So, they bowed down to the mirror like it was a god. Am I right?”

  “Ahem!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yes, they were baffled by its reflectivity, but they prayed to the mirror for a different reason. They claimed they could communicate with the dead through it. Not only that, the dearly departed could climb out of it and rejoin the living. Gimbal claims to have actually seen it happen.”

  This was where I drew the line. The idea of psychedelic lake water was pretty hard to believe, but at least there was chemical science to support it. Seeing dead people in mirrors was going over the top. Maybe in 1912 it was thought possible, but in the 21st century that kind o
f slight-of-hand can easily be debunked.

  Hubert flipped to the back of the book. “Here’s where it gets even crazier.”

  A folded piece of paper was tucked into the pages. I opened what looked like a torn page from a diary.

  The hand-written note read:

  Tuesday

  Failed to find Wickagua. Found only deforestation. Tribal home is now an oil drilling site. Lake drained. Collecting water samples now impossible.

  Wednesday

  Hiked deeper into jungle. No sign of natives. Feel a grave injustice has been done.

  Thursday

  Preparing for home. Found this . . .

  Then came the real shocker. A Polaroid snapshot was stapled to the note. The image showed the same mirror in the 100-year-old photo leaning against a bulldozer.

  “Look closer,” said Hubert. Taking a magnifying glass from his pocket, he held it over the photo. I squinted my eyes. The man taking the picture was reflected in the mirror. That man was Ravi!

  The hospital admitting nurse welcomed me, then sat down at her computer. “Patient’s name, please.”

  “Alec Hakeem,” I said.

  “When was he admitted?”

  “Sometime last night.”

  All I wanted was Alec’s hospital room number. Then I would decide if it was a good idea to even see him. Needless to say, our last meeting didn’t go so well. Seeing me might remind him of the humiliation I caused him. Then again, clearing the air might just be what he needs. I’m no psychologist, but a little morale boosting never hurt anybody.

  “I’m sorry,” said the nurse, looking up from her computer, “no one by that name was admitted here last night.”

  “Not even to the Emergency Room?”

  She typed on her keyboard. “He didn’t come through Emergency, either.”