Kindle Edition
Amazon
Amazon
Category:
Humor
Publisher: SHP
Type: Fiction
Pages: 27
Copyright: Oct 2 2018
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
Satire on an imaginary American president with weird hair
There is something very disturbing about the President’s Hair. It appears to have a life of its own. Just try not to look at it.
Excerpt
Marlene privately thought the woman was jealous of her daughter, whose hair was even more beautiful than her own. So beautiful it seemed a shame to cut it.
“Wait!” Marlene put her hand out. “Are you sure you want me to cut it? It’s so beautiful. Can’t you plait it or put it in a ponytail? It seems a shame. . .” She tailed off as the woman glared at her venomously.
“I’ve tried that,” she said between clenched teeth. “I’ve tried everything. It won’t let me.” Then with a note of pleading. “Please, please will you cut it off?” She pulled back in alarm as a stray lock of her daughter’s hair fell forward across her arm and for a moment it looked as if it were gripping onto her.
Marlene suddenly realised she’d got it wrong. The woman wasn’t jealous of the hair. She was afraid of it.
“OK,” she said. “Let’s get her in the chair.”
The child fought like a demon, the wild hair whipping round her head as she struggled against them, but at last they got her in the chair and Marlene, still holding onto the girl with one hand, reached out and took her scissors from the shelf.
The child screamed as Marlene grabbed a substantial lock of the hair. Under her hand, the hair writhed. Marlene was so surprised she almost dropped the scissors. But she was made of sterner stuff. “Right,” she said, grasping the hair more firmly in her left hand and cutting across with her right.
In her need to restrain the thick lock of hair, she cut blindly, slashing as quickly as she could. The heavy lock fell to the floor, leaving the short hair twitching in the breeze of its passage. The woman gasped, the child wailed.
Pressing her lips together, Marlene grasped another hank of hair. As she cut, another lock snaked out and gripped her wrist. She gave a little cry of fear and disgust and slashed at it with the scissors. It fell to the floor but yet another lock snapped round her scissor hand and, as she struggled to pull out the scissors with her left hand, another one slapped her face and began to curl around her neck. “Oh my God!” she shrieked. The hair tightened around her throat. Marlene looked up to see Amanda’s mother, a look of sheer terror on her face, just staring back, horror-stricken. “The scissors, Get the scissors,” Marlene whispered, her eyes shooting across to the rows of mirrors, each with a set of implements on the shelf below. There was an endless moment when the woman didn’t move, then time speeded up, she leapt over to the shelf, grabbed a pair of scissors and slashed through the lock of hair. Marlene drew in a long, ragged breath, then looked down to where the other lock was binding itself round her scissor hand. “Cut it,” she croaked. Mrs Midwinter leant in to cut the lock but drew back as yet another lock looped down and almost grasped her wrist. My God, how much of the stuff is there? Marlene wondered. The woman moved to the other side and attacked the hair from a different angle. The lock dropped off and Marlene was free to cut off the lock binding her other wrist. To her surprise Mrs Midwinter joined in, cutting and slashing in a mad frenzy. Some detached part of Marlene’s mind wondered what this would look like if a passer-by looked in – two madwomen slashing at a screaming child. She shook off the thought and waded into the fray.
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