Barnaby the barber was having a bad hair day. A really, REALLY bad hair day. His usually perfectly coiffed, gravity-defying pompadour was flatter than a pancake. “It’s just… gone,” he mumbled, staring forlornly at his reflection. His apprentice, a nervous young lad named Pip, peered over Barnaby’s shoulder. “Master Barnaby,” Pip squeaked, “Perhaps…a bit of hairspray?”
Barnaby sighed. “Pip, my boy, this isn’t a case for hairspray. This is a theological crisis! It’s like… God’s hair today, gone tomorrow!” He dramatically swept a hand across his now-smooth scalp. “The very essence of my follicular fortitude has vanished!”
A customer, a portly gentleman with a walrus mustache, chuckled from his chair. “Sounds serious, Barnaby. What happened?”
Barnaby dramatically lowered his voice. “It started this morning. I woke up, brushed my magnificent mane, and…nothing. Just… flatness. Despair. A void where once stood a masterpiece of barbering artistry!” He dramatically pointed to a faded poster on the wall – a younger, much fluffier Barnaby beaming with a magnificent pompadour.
Pip, ever helpful, chimed in, “Perhaps… a wig, Master Barnaby?” He held up a rather fetching, bright pink wig.
Barnaby stared at the wig, then back at his reflection. A mischievous glint entered his eye. “Pip,” he said, a wide grin spreading across his face. “You’re a genius! But instead of pink… let’s go for something… bolder.”
He emerged a few minutes later sporting a magnificent, shimmering gold wig, twice the size of his original ‘do. The walrus-mustached customer nearly choked on his tea. Barnaby winked. “See? God’s hair today, gone tomorrow! But a barber’s creativity? That’s forever!”
