* * * * *
I decided the waiting game would be better played out in my apartment. The streets were too depressing. We were all feeding off each other’s melancholy. It just wasn’t healthy. Best brood in isolation so as not to infect others. I needed some time alone anyway. The gumshoe thing just wasn’t a natural fit and it took it out of me. I had to refuel the old engines if I was going to be of any use.
I was sprawled on my sweat stained bed, combing through my journal, looking for clues, something I’d missed. One thing I’ll say for myself, I’m a thorough documentarian. The sheer level of detail was sickening. There would have been a time, perhaps only a few days ago, where I’d soak up the detail like life-giving light. I knew so much and yet here I was, confronted with the worst crisis the District had faced in my lifetime and I had nothing. I was dead weight. My journal amounted to no more than an elaborate fluff piece, a flight of fancy by someone with too much time on their hands. I flung the journal aside and buried my face in the pillows. Boy did the tears fly.
I’ll admit it off the bat, I’m a crying man. I can’t help myself. It turns me on like a switch. There’s a point you reach in the midst of a good cry where you lose yourself completely. You no longer control your body and it feels fantastic. My dirty bastard gets harder than an assassin and I pull on it like a bellringer. Imagine the sight: a full grown man, naked as the truth, crying his heart out, wanking his heart out. Needless to say, these are activities best pursued in the privacy of your own home.
My pent up frustration had essentially been cried out. It felt good. Goodbye weight of the world, hello weight of the District. I slept a bit afterward. It was a dreamless sleep and it was exactly what I needed.
I awoke into the same world as before. I was rested but it only ensured I saw things all the more clearly. This place, this District was dying and by association, I was too. I wondered what Billy was up to. He was a big name. A hotshot. I knew he’d have the know-how to get word out. I just hoped our bald man would notice. But, even if he did notice, what next? Sure, we lure him into the convention, get him all hot n’ heavy over the new comb jars. Then what? If there’s one thing this guy has proved over and over again, it’s that he can escape. This was probably a long way from being over.
I crawled pathetically toward my journal, which I’d tossed unlovingly like a bag of canker sores onto the carpet. Cradling my leather-bound purpose in nurturing arms I kissed it gently and apologised for the treatment. It felt heavier than usual – sadder somehow. I flicked to my first entry about the bald man. At this point the bald man was a footnote, a curiosity. Who knew? I was right there, getting lathered up like a decadent sucker, while the seed to our woe was planted right in front of my damn face! I could have grabbed the bastard; could have wrestled him to the ground shouting, “You sir, shall not proceed!” But no, that wasn’t how it played out. I sat there like a slack-jawed fuck, watching. He hesitated too. I recall it well. If my wits had been up to snuff, I would have caught him easily.
I was feeling sorry for myself in an ugly way.
* * * * *
Billy finally rang at six that evening. He told me to watch Hair Me Now and then he hung up. I didn’t get a word in. Hair Me Now was the top rating barber related channel on television. I’d helped out in the formative years but left when my work was done. If you wanted to know about barber culture, Hair Me Now was the place to turn. There was always a never-ending roster of friendly faces to gently guide you. Seasoned pros and hobbyists alike were catered for. I had avoided the channel like the plague since the beginning of the bald man debacle. As I flicked the television on, I knew why my avoidance had been necessary. Current affairs reporter Chris McChris was on screen crying uncontrollably. I upped the volume.
Why does it keep happening folks? Why isn’t anyone looking out for us? Barber after barber shattered, destroyed, heartbroken. WHY??? Once again we implore our viewers, if you can provide ANY information about the bald man, PLEASE let us know. We will forward your information to law enforcement officials with your utmost privacy in mind.
The next 15 minutes of the program were occupied with Chris McChris’ gentle sobbing. It was a harrowing display. Mercifully, it was eventually interrupted by a special announcement. My ears pricked up, my eyes bulged. There he was on screen, Billy Backwash, looking and sounding as officious as ever.
Gentlefellows, for those not familiar, I would like to introduce myself. I am Billy Backwash of Backwash’s Comb Glassery and Barberal Ephemera. For many years I have made my name in the field of comb glassing. I work from my factory in Berlin where I’m afforded the opportunity to work with materials of the highest standard. Any artisan worth his salt must concede that the materials used play a role of tremendous enormity. I have been granted permission to work with a new set of materials. Materials of unheralded quality and property. Utilising these materials I have spent the last several years perfecting a new set of comb jars, which I can honestly say rate as my best work to date. I am terribly fond of these new jars and am personally excited about the prospect of my barber friends enjoying them too. This Thursday at the annual Hair District Barber’s Conference I will present these jars in person. You, my friends, will be the first people outside of my research team to lay their eyes upon my new generation of comb storage glassware. I sincerely look forward to seeing you there. These are troubling times. Let us look toward the light. Thank you.
The announcement was replayed several times over the course of the night. Billy Backwash was a wonderful, wonderful man. He transformed himself in front of the camera’s gaze. Whereas in person Billy often had a tendency toward smugness, in the public eye he was the consummate, empathic professional. No one could doubt the sincerity of his words. When he said these new comb jars were his best yet, he damn well meant it.
I tried to materialise the possibility of the jars in my mind but I lacked the scope to formulate such wonder. The jars of my mind would always stall on the current design. Was it possible that Billy had truly outdone perfection? This was quite simply a remarkable possibility. Almost impossible to believe.
After several hours of jar contemplation it dawned on me that the bald man had vanished from my headspace. The true power of this wonderful barber culture was in its ability to transcend, cut through all the guff. It allowed us a way of seeing beyond the grisly present into a utopian ideal. We were religious in our fervour. That we allowed the disruptive malarkey of a nameless bald man to dampen our spirits was sacrilegious. How could we hope to reverse the situation if we ourselves refused to lift a finger? How could we achieve anything from behind our locked doors? Law enforcement could only go so far. They had nothing invested in the Hair District. For them it was mere routine – a by the book display of understandable apathy. No, it was us on the front lines that needed to rise up. I would stop this bald man. I would save this district. My resolve had inflated toward infinity.
* * * * *
The next morning I walked along the main strip, soaking up the environment in scientific detail. The mood wasn’t quite as dark as before. Some people were even smiling. Billy had certainly achieved his goal. Everyone here had seen the broadcast. It wasn’t even gossip. It was a promise from the mouth of Billy Backwash himself. Powerful energy permeated the air that we breathed. An industrious vendor was already selling t-shirts which bore the slogan ‘I’m looking forward to the new jars’. Excited district dwellers were buying them in a frenzy, throwing their cash down, slipping t-shirts over their proud heads and yelling, “Keep the change,” before skipping away.
I stood on the sidelines, arms folded, a content smile plastered on my face. I felt like a proud father watching his children flourish despite the devastation. Of course, the bald man was still out there, but right now, in this moment, it didn’t seem to matter. We humans are imbued with a remarkable resilience. Sometimes that’s easy to forget. I felt it in my bones. We would overcome.
I slipped into Peter’s Peatery for a bite to eat and a
quick shave. Messy Phil was up in Peter’s face, making him feel pretty damn uncomfortable. Peter’s eyes jumped to mine. They had “save me” written all over them. I walked confidently and with purpose.
“What the hell are you doing, Phil?” I had force in my voice.
He turned around all jittery and gormless.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Jack! You’re not going to believe it!”
I stared him down, trying to assess the threat he posed to Peter. My reading was largely benign. What we had here was the town crank, making the norms feel antsy.
“I think perhaps you oughta buy something from the Peatery or get out, Phil.”
“Jeez, Jack! Don’t be like that. I was only trying to show Peter here what I got.”
“I’m not sure Peter’s interested in what you’ve got.”
Peter gave an emphatic nod behind Phil’s back, letting me know that my instincts were blazing.
“Screw it!” Phil yelled, “I’ll just damn well show you. Come ‘ere!”
Phil marched toward an unoccupied table and retrieved a twitching, writhing tea towel from his coat pocket. The grin he was shooting covered most of his face.
“You ain’t going to call me strange anymore, Jack. This town’ll see that my head is screwed on good and proper.”
He carefully unfolded the tea towel bit by bit. He was dragging the moment out. I stood outwardly unimpressed. Inside my gut was a whirl of shit and spice. This bastard better not have what I think he has.
He had exactly what I thought he’d have. As the last flap of tea towel was moved away, there it was. No taller than a book of matches and skinny as a chicken leg. It was a wank fairy. My mouth fell open.
“You gotta be kidding me” It was all I could say.
“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you, Jack? I told ya, didn’t I? The wank fairies are real! I caught this little lady last night. I revised the recipe for my ball paste. She couldn’t sense a thing. She flew right into my sac and BAM! She was stuck. I peeled her off all nice n’ gentle and gave her a wash. She’s mine!”
I got my eyeballs nice and close. It looked real as real can look. Its tiny chest breathed in and out, its eyelids flickered. It was covered in thick, unpleasant veins that pumped with an audible hiss. Fuck it was ugly but I had to admit, I was impressed.
“I have to admit, Phil, I’m impressed.”
“That means a lot coming from you, Jack.”
Phil stretched his arms out, imploring me for a hug.
“I’m not going to hug you, Phil.”
“Yessir!”
From behind us, Peter piped up.
“That thing really smells!”
It didn’t strike me at first but Peter was right. A particularly foul odour was wafting from the wank fairy. A flush of red hot embarrassment crawled about Messy Phil’s face.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that’s the only problem. She’s cute as a button n’ all but she’s always farting! I mean it too. I’m not saying she farts regularly, I’m saying that she’s involved in an endless drawn out fart. It’s not especially pleasant.”
“You can say that again. You know, I hate to tell you Phil, but I think this is going to be a deal breaker. It doesn’t matter that it exists. If it’s always shooting off down there then there ain’t nobody who’ll want anything to do with it.”
“Aww Jack, don’t say that!”
Phil looked genuinely hurt and I couldn’t allay his fears. That little thing was truly disgusting. He began to slouch and sniff back what I assume were the onset of tears.
“Look Phil, you’ve proved they exist, that’s something. Just don’t try forcing it on people. Perhaps you should take a couple of photos and then let it go.”
Phil looked enraged, as if I’d just taken a dump over his entire life up to this point – maybe I had. I wasn’t given the benefit of a reply. Phil just shut up and slowly walked out, being careful to wrap his fetid wank fairy back in the towel. I didn’t feel so hungry anymore. That thing had a smell that really lingered. It wasn’t good for the District.
* * * * *
In general, the mood leading up to the convention remained fairly positive. There were three more windows smashed, three more comb jars knocked over and although we certainly weren’t happy about it, we were growing used to it. Humans adjust to atrocity as a means of survival. Almost everyone I saw flaunted their ‘I’m looking forward to the new jars’ t-shirt with pride. The mood still retained that essential electricity. People really were looking forward to the jars. I was too of course, but I had a bald man to stop.
As much as I wanted to jump into the festivities I knew I couldn’t, not yet, business before pleasure. I had to weigh it up. I could forget about the bald man, enjoy the convention and watch as the District swirled further down the civic toilet or I could stand up and try to put a stop to this mess. Obviously I chose the latter.
The waiting game had given me time to formulate the rudiments of a plan. Billy provided information about where the jars would be placed before the dramatic unveiling. I had been granted early access to the Barber’s Grace Athenaeum where the convention was taking place. I was given permission to set up a food table near the future location of the jars. The jars were to be kept on a table toward the western wall of the athenaeum. My idea was to disguise myself as a basket of crows and sit atop the tactfully placed food table. I chose a basket of crows as my disguise because I assumed it wasn’t a food that most attendees would care to eat. If everything went to plan it would just be me and the bald man. Billy agreed to inform the attendees where the jars were being kept but would ask earnestly that they not be approached until the unveiling. It was a calculated risk. There was a great deal of respect within the barber culture and we were almost certain that Billy’s wishes would be steadfastly respected. It was also a calculated risk on our part that the bald man simply wouldn’t be able to resist. As far as we knew, he had no ties to the barber world. The code of ethics wouldn’t mean a great deal to him. It was an utterly brilliant plan.
* * * * *
My mother graciously agreed to help me with the disguise so I had her shipped express to my apartment. My mother was a real trooper. All of her husbands died during a confusing incident involving incorrect pronunciation. I was quite young at the time and couldn’t really comprehend the situation. All my mother would tell me is that they were ‘ill-prepared’ and left it at that. She looked after me and three of my four sisters with endless love and compassion. There wasn’t a single thing she wouldn’t do for us. This was as true today as it was back then.
As we sat, sewing together my basket of crows, I filled her in on recent events. She appeared deeply hurt, full of empathy. Barber culture only mattered to her via proxy. On a personal level she wasn’t terribly interested in the world I had become entrenched within, but through her unwavering love of me, she was able to feel what I was feeling. At random intervals she would throw her soft, flabby arms around me, trying to hug all the sadness away. It sure felt comforting. One grows so damn used to going it alone that it’s easy to forget what real support feels like. I bathed in the feeling, I lovingly wallowed in it.
As the final stiches were sewn on my disguise I took several steps backward. It didn’t matter which angle or from what distance I viewed it, it looked amazing. The level of detail was exquisite. My role throughout the construction consisted of little more than passing needles and thread to my skilfully endowed mother. After much playful goading I agreed to try it on. It had to be done. No use spending all of this time on the disguise if it wasn’t going to fit. I shuffled off into my bedroom, costume in hand. It fit immaculately. My arms and legs slid right into it, my face was wonderfully obscured. For all intents and purposes, I was a basket of crows. My mother agreed adamantly. Her face was glowing with a smile that could guide ships away from jagged shores. She put her arms around me one last time before I helped package her up and send her back home. We agreed to meet up more regularly. This made
my heart smile.
* * * * *
The morning of a barber’s conference excites like little else. Gammy knees are imbued with previously forgotten stamina. Weak appetites are strengthened ten fold and laughter becomes the chosen language. A magical mood hung about the air like decorations. My mood, however, was somewhat dampened by my impending endeavour. The bald man was still out there and until I had him under control I was always going to be a little edgy. I didn’t sleep the previous night. I spent every waking hour frozen in thought but I believed intuitively that the odds were good. The situation had been orchestrated with collective expertise and I wasn’t going to let the community down. The basket of crows disguise was carefully laid out on the kitchen counter. The morning light shining through the window was kind to every loving detail. I’d have to store it in my barber’s satchel until I was ready to use it. I couldn’t have anyone seeing it before the fact. The only people privy to my activities were my mother, Billy, myself and a few key people at the athenaeum.
I had arranged to arrive several hours before the convention was due to start. I had to situate myself while ensuring I wasn’t witnessed by the eager beaver, early arrival types. I met Arvo Williams at the back entrance. Arvo was an extraordinary advocate of barber’s culture. The debut convention was put together by him alone way back when, before most people even knew what a temple fade was. He supported my activities entirely and was more than happy to help out in any way he could. All I really needed from Arvo was early access to the athenaeum and for him to keep his mouth shut. I trusted him.
Billy was already inside. He had his new jars set up already, tantalisingly draped with a silk sheet. Just knowing I was so close to the jars gave me goosebumps upon goosebumps. I had to suppress my impatience. I’d see them in due course. It was better to lay eyes upon them as part of the community anyway. It would strengthen the glue that bound us as a culture. Billy shot me a knowing glance.
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