Of Leprechauns, Elephants and Barbers 2 by Just_Me

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March 19, 1993

Good morning, dear friend.

The terror started the instant Mr. Bane popped into my dreams with the greeting, "How in the name of Jaysus, Mary and Joseph are ya?"

It was bad enough that the evil leader showed up in my dreams, but that wasn’t enough. All of his leprechaun cohorts (including the elephant) had to appear, and start their incessant incantations of magic.

An evil light appeared in Mr. Bane’s squinty little eyes. "Sure you know yourself that it tis not demons you be battling. Ye opened yourself up to the wee folks years ago, and quite a time we have had torturing ye." He sighed. "Yes, quite a time. Thank ye for the pleasure ye’ve given us."

He chuckled. "I expect we’ll have you away with the fairies before we’re done with you." ["Away with the fairies" means that someone is crazy.]

With a murmured spell he planted images in my head, and I re-experienced all the horrible nightmares from the previous night. I cried as the elephant shaved the horrible MPB into my head again, and shuddered in disgust.

After he had completed his torment of me, he waved, "Slán go fóill." He grinned at me and said, "That be the way Irish folks say, ‘safety for a while’. I wish you safety for a while, but you won’t be safe. Back in your dreams I will be, ye just don’t know the when of it!" He disappeared in a flash.

Now I’m wondering if he will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I will leave you now, my friend. I’ll be back later to tell you how the day went…and most likely, what stupid situations I will manage to get myself into today.

Dearest Diary, I’m home, and my god, every atom in my body is longing to have a drink (or several) but I’m too afraid to indulge, after what happened the last time I drank. I don’t know if booze is responsible for the demons escaping and the leprechauns appearing, but I’m not willing to risk it. I guess I’ll have to pour my angst into these pages, rather than pouring a couple of drinks.

I’ve often said that the available supply of swear words in the English language is insufficient to meet the demand of daily life, and today was a day where I needed more graphic, more horrible…hell, I needed more violent curses…to apply to myself. I’m such a goddamned eejit!

I really messed up, big time.

It started off as a normal day: two cups of coffee, a leisurely shower, some laundry…and then I decided to go pick up my check at work. [Who remembers the days before direct deposit when you had to deposit a check in the bank?]

After getting dressed, I was looking at myself, and decided I didn’t like the way the beard looked without the mustache. My mustache and trimmed sides are growing back, and the stubble against the longish beard on the rest of my face looked weird.

I decided to severely trim my beard back, not shave it, but just make it look less awkward between the long and short. I felt I would look better if everything was short.

Admittedly, I felt life in my groin when the clippers came on, but quickly did what I needed to.

As I often do (or don’t do), I didn’t pause to consider the ramifications of my actions.

Anyway, I walked into work, and Bill greeted me. I had my usual thought. "How in the hell can he think he looks good with that outrageous combover?" As always, I shivered, and thought, "Thank all the gods I didn’t seem to inherit a baldness gene."

A thought more horrifying than death hit me. "Do I really find his combover attractive? Is that why I’m always staring at Bill?"

An even more shocking question passed through my brain. "Did I have the nightmares because I subconsciously want to be bald and have a combover?"

Diary, I will burn you before I let anyone read this, but I don’t know the answer to any of the questions I just shared with you. I certainly hope it’s not true, but I can’t say for sure.

Anyway, I went to the office and got my check. When I came out, I saw him. There was a man coming out of the bathroom with the haircut of my dreams. His hair was shaved high up the sides and back. It was obvious that he had just been to the barbershop. The shaved sides gradually got longer, until it met a thick shock of hair on the top. A random lock of hair was hanging in his face, letting me know the top was fairly long. His deeply tanned skin contrasted beautifully with his thick white/silver hair …and it didn’t hurt that he was dreamy looking too. To make matters even better (or worse) he was wearing a suit and tie. Lust overwhelmed me.

He looked like he belonged in "The Great Gatsby".

I couldn’t tell for sure, but I thought he was a younger man who had prematurely greyed. Maybe he was a remarkably well preserved older man. Either way, his stunning good looks captivated me. Let me rephrase that. He wasn’t stunningly good looking, but cute in an incredibly attractive manner.

I couldn’t help it. I stopped in the middle of the aisle. I was consumed with passion for his haircut. Even though my brain was saying, "Stop staring, Thomas! It’s rude!" my body couldn’t seem to move. My eyes wouldn’t leave the glory that I was looking at. I tried to lock every detail of this marvelous haircut into my memory, thinking, "I would literally kill to have that haircut. It’s perfect!"

(Diary, have you ever noticed that even the most perfect haircut is improved when it’s on someone who’s very attractive? Well, this man was extremely nice looking, and it just made his hair look better to me.)

My next thought was, "He wears his hair with so much confidence. I wish I could pull that off."

I grunted to myself. "Give it up, Thomas. That’ll never happen."

The light reflecting off the oil in his hair was entrancing. The shaved scalp on the side of his head practically begged me to touch it.

I wondered how it would feel to run my hands up his freshly shorn nape. I wanted to flip the lock of hair that had escaped from the top of his head back in place. I wanted to get up close, and see how many shades of grey, silver and white were actually in his hair.

A chill went down my spine as I thought about it.

I guess I’m like Pavlov’s dog. When presented with certain stimuli, my body is going to react. It’s inevitable that my groin is going to stir when I see a good-looking man with sharp, well-cut short hair. I’m like a bird dog that’s found the scent of a pheasant. I’m going to point.

I followed him for at least fifteen minutes, tracking him through our 150,000 square foot building like a dog on the trail of something interesting-smelling.

I’m such a dumbass. I let my inner demons take full control of me, and I got close enough that I could smell the sweet aroma of good pipe tobacco on him. I couldn’t believe it! A good-looking man that had an old--fashioned haircut, and smoked a pipe too! This was the man of my fantasies!

I argued with myself, but somehow I found myself standing in front of him, getting ready to talk to him. My opening gambit? "Excuse me, sir. That’s a mighty fine haircut. I wish a lot more men had similar cuts, including myself."

I wanted to die of shame! I prayed for a sudden heart attack. What the hell was I thinking?

He took it in stride though. He smiled at me. "I get a lot of comments on my hair. It’s either high praise like you gave me, or ‘Your hair is disgusting’. There’s no middle ground about it."

Instead of shutting up, I kept talking. "My dad kept me in short hair like that for years. Sometimes I miss it, even though I hated it at the time."

"I can relate. My father kept my hair cut just like this through my whole childhood." A smirk crossed his face. "We had some big fights when I hit my teens. I wanted hair like The Beatles, but Pa always ended the argument with ‘My house, my rules’."

I laughed. "I heard the same thing more times than I care to remember."

I quickly did the math. If he was a teen when the Beatles hit, he was probably born in the Fifties, so he wasn’t an old man, maybe mid-forties. I knew it was a fantasy, but I continued doing math, trying to guess how much older he was than me. I thought, "Probably not more than fifteen years separate us. That’s a big gap, but not impossible to bridge."

The conversation veered away from haircuts, and we introduced ourselves to each other. His name was Woody. We spent a long time just talking.

Without warning, Woody took the conversation back to hair, specifically, my hair. "I can see you’re trying not to stare, but it’s not working. You obviously really like my hair. Are you serious about going back to a nice short back and sides?"

I thought, "Who wouldn’t stare when faced with a perfect specimen of masculinity like you?"

I blushed, and cussed myself for being so obvious, but then I nodded. "Yes, sir. I’ve thought about it…some. Heck, I even tried it a few times." I shook my head. "Boy, was that a disaster. The barber I grew up with retired, and I could never find another barber who could do a decent short back and sides. After several botched cuts, I finally gave up on getting a good haircut, and started letting my hair grow out."

I thought, "Nice job, Thomas. You got out of that situation beautifully."

Then I screwed it up by saying, "Who’s your barber? I’d love to try him."

"I’ve used Ron at Parker’s Barbershop for years. Do you know where it is?"

"No, sir."

"It’s on the east side of town, the corner of High Street and North Avenue."

I knew exactly where he was talking about. Back in the days when my demons were in charge, I couldn’t pass a barbershop without trying to get a glimpse of the barber, and more importantly how short he was cutting the hair of the man in the chair. I had passed Parker’s Barbershop, and parked a block down the street. I got out of the truck, and walked to the convenience store next door to his shop. I remember looking in the window, and thinking, "Nope! I won’t try him. He has long hair. Who’d be foolish enough to trust a barber without short hair?" I distinctly remember shaking my head and thinking, "It’s kinda sad when a barber has long hair."

Suddenly, I remembered the hell I went through when I had tried short hair before, and reason began to set in. "Thomas, you’ve got yourself into a deep pickle now. You'd better start backtracking."

I lied. "I’m not familiar with the east side of town, but I’ll go track it down...someday."

He grinned at me. "No time like the present. Come on. You can follow me, or I’ll take you. That way Ron will know exactly what you want."

I backpedaled more. "I couldn’t ask you to do that!"

"You didn’t ask. I volunteered." He kept talking. "I’m a great believer in the virtue of short hair on a man, and I have all the zeal of a fundamentalist preacher when it comes to making converts. I have more than a few success stories under my belt to prove it. Come on! Let’s go. I’m not going to take no for an answer."

I argued for a few minutes, citing all I had to accomplish that day.

When that didn’t work, I thought, "Tell him you’ll follow him, and then ditch him somewhere along the way."

It was like he read my mind. "I know where you work. If you ‘lose me’ on the way, I will show up here every day, until I get you in a barber’s chair."

The inner demons liked the sound of that. The idea sent chills through me.

Somehow, I knew he was telling the truth. He would hound me, until I gave in.

I thought, "Between him and the demons, I don’t have a chance in hell. I might as well get it over with."

I couldn’t help but feel a little thrill, once I knew I was going to go with him.

He unlocked the truck and said, "There’s a basket in your seat. Just shove it to the center."

There was a big basket in my seat. A quick glance told me it was full of pipes. I hoped he would smoke one.

Somehow, despite my best intentions, my churning stomach, pounding heart and shaking hands found themselves in the truck with a total stranger going to the barbershop. I began to mentally berate myself. "Thomas Wayne, it was just stupid to get in a vehicle of someone you don’t know." I stopped blaming myself. "It’s those damned inner demons’ fault. This is why I tried so hard to control them."

After a few minutes, I started relaxing. We were at least going in the right direction. I thought, "Maybe I won’t wind up dead in a drainage ditch somewhere."

An immediate response popped up in my head. "I don’t know, but I think I’d rather be dead than trying to tame these demons again." I sighed. "How the hell am I going to explain why I showed up with a short haircut…again."

The dread got to be overwhelming, and I needed a distraction, so I started a conversation with him. "I know you said your father made you keep your hair short while you were living with him. Have you always kept your hair short?"

He laughed. "No. I lived through the Seventies, and like most of that generation, I got sucked into the long hair trap-sideburns, mustache and all." He looked me up and down. "I think you’ll be like me, and absolutely love it, once you’ve got a decent haircut again."

"I really don’t want to go back to a short back and sides!"

"Why not? It’s convenient, and even the styles are changing. Short hair is back in style."

I thought of the barber in my dreams, and said, "May all the saints be praised."

He laughed. "Do ye maybe have a wee bit of the Irish in ye?"

I grinned. "Guilty as charged." I kept talking. "You’re right. Shorter hair is back in style, but the fashion is not as short as I would like for it to be!"

My next thought was, "My god. Why the hell did I say that? I’ll never get out of this with any hair on my head!"

I looked at Woody, and said something that probably sounded rude. "Even if short hair is in vogue now, what you’re sporting is still very old fashioned."

He did seem to take offense. He nodded and rubbed his hand up his neck. "You may be right, but getting to feel that makes it worth it."

He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and reached in the basket and picked up a pipe. I somehow managed to watch him go through the ritual of packing and lighting his pipe without saying something stupid.

After he had the pipe going, he looked at me. "Let me guess. You enjoy a pipe and/or cigar regularly, but you’ve never smoked in front of anyone, unless it’s your father or some other close family member."

I turned a deeper shade of red. "You’re right. How did you know?"

"I’m a psychologist. People tell me their secrets all the time, and I’ve learned to recognize the behavior patterns, but you’re a clear broadcaster of your thoughts. You kept looking at the pipes in the basket with a clear longing. You’ve not taken your eyes off me since I lit up. That’s a pretty clear indicator. I’d guess you’re as fascinated with pipes as you are short hair. Am I right?"

I nodded.

He pushed the basket over to me. "Help yourself to one, if you want it."

"No thanks."

Woody was silent for the rest of the trip. He seemed to be enjoying his pipe, but I noticed he looked at me regularly. Since he had told me he was a psychologist, I wondered if he was analyzing me.

We walked into the shop, and the barber’s accent almost made me run out the door. "Woody, ye wee eejit. Surely you be not here for another scalping! Faith and begorra, have I not just a few hours hence tidied you up a wee bit?"

He smiled, and I breathed a sigh of relief when he dropped the Irish accent. He grinned at me. "Pardon my obviously fake accent. It’s just something Woody and I do. Every week we try a different one."

He turned to Woody. "How in the hell did we start doing that?"

"I don’t know, but we’ve been doing it for years."

I recognized two people who enjoyed the sound of their own voice, and figured they’d talk for a while, so I started looking around. My hair demons were thrilled to be back in a shop, especially a shop where the barber had such obvious skills. I thought, "At least I know I won’t be butchered."

The designer in me was intrigued. It was a quaint one-chair shop, but it was a fairly big square room, nothing like the small, long and narrow shops I was used to. The building had a lot of character. The owner had obviously tried to update it, but the bones of the structure maintained its original 1920’s charm. I liked what I saw. It still looked like an old-fashioned barber shop, but it had some unexpected features that were intriguing.

One wall was covered with something that almost looked like a mixture of contemporary art and graffiti. The barber spoke up. "Do you like that?"

"It’s really interesting. Who did it?"


He laughed. "That’s a good question. There’s probably a hundred little artists responsible for that ‘artwork’. After about the fourth time a runaway kid hit my chair, and made me butcher a haircut, I put that up. When kids come in, I give them a coat, and let them paint while their fathers get a haircut." He paused. "It was either that, or handcuffing every kid that walks in. My wall works though. I’ve not had any more botched haircuts since I put that up."

"That’s brilliant! You should patent the idea."

"I ain’t interested in a patent, I just want to be able to give a decent haircut without a rugrat ruining it."

I looked around, checking out the rest of the shop when I got a sense of Déjà vu. The shop as it would have originally been was the scene of my leprechaun/elephant nightmare! It was all I could do to keep from putting my hands on top of my head to keep the leprechauns in my memories from shaving the top of my head. Terror overwhelmed me as I remember the sound of the bees in my dream.

Somehow, I managed to pull myself together when I heard Ron talking to me. "You look like you need a good scalping."

I couldn’t help myself. "You do too. What kind of barber wears long hair?"

A quick grin was followed by, "This kind of barber. I’m from the old school of ‘Do as I say, not as I do’."

I popped off. "You not practicing what you preach cost you a customer a few years back. I was going to come in and get a haircut. When I saw you had long hair, I went next door, got a Dr. Pepper and left. I’ve never driven by here again." I pointed at Woody. "If he hadn’t told me you cut his hair, I would’ve never believed a long-haired barber like you was capable of creating a great haircut like his."

Ron looked offended at first, but then he said, "I’ve noticed a lot of people pulling in and leaving. I wonder if it’s because of my hair?" He shook my hand again. "Thanks for being honest with me. I may have to reconsider my hair, and set an example."

I laughed. "I fully expect you to look like Woody the next time I see you."

"Hmm…I’m not sure about that, but I may, or may not, have shorter hair the next time I see you."

He swiveled the chair around. "Be ye ready for a good scalping?" I shivered.

While he was putting the cape on, he asked, "What’ll it be?"

Woody answered, "Peel him down, and make him look like me."

Ron looked at me. "Is that what you really want?"

I had no qualms, despite knowing I was about to release my hair demons again. "Yes, sir. Just like him." I gave Ron my goofiest smile. "I want to set an example for a certain long-haired barber. Can you do that for me? Maybe together we can convince that barber of the evils of long hair"

He laughed at my attempt at humor. "I wonder who that barber might be?" He looked at me. "You might just convince that barber, but don’t count your chickens before your eggs hatch."

Ron looked at me. "Ready?"

"Go for it."

He ran the clippers up my neck, and I fought the urge to say, "Welcome back, hair demons. You’re in full control again."

The vibration of the clippers on my skull instantly traveled to my nether region. All I could think was, "Thank god barbers use a cape. I’d be in a heap of trouble if they didn’t."

I watched every move Ron made, and I’m ashamed to say it, but I enjoyed every pass of the clippers, and every snick of the scissors. I watched every clump of hair fall to the floor.

My demons were ecstatic…and I have to admit, so was I.

It didn’t take him long to get one side and my neck completely bare almost halfway up my head. I ran my hand up my neck, and thought, ‘Ah, that feeling is why I’m willing to subject myself to the ridicule of those around me. I love it!"

I had a hard time putting my hand down. I wanted to keep rubbing my neck, but Ron wasn’t through with me yet.

After most of the hair on the sides and back had disappeared, the clippers started tapering the hair into the longer hair on the top. His barbering skills were evident in every confident swipe he made.

He worked on the top, clippers over comb. Then he started whacking at my hair with thinning shears. I wondered if I was going to have any hair left on the top of my head by the time he was done. I smirked when I thought, "Mr. Bane must be whispering in his ear, trying to get him to give me a MPB."

The thinning shears made tiny little filaments of hair fly everywhere, including up my nose. I sneezed several times.

I liked the way he didn’t ask if I wanted hair tonic put on my hair. He assumed. "What kind of tonic do you want?"

I pointed at Woody. "Whatever he uses will be fine."

After shaving around my neck, and touching up the blending between the shave part and longer hair on top, he handed me a mirror.

I had known what was coming, but it was still a shock to the system to see it. My first thought was, "You look very sharp, all freshly clipped."

Bare skin curved around my ears and up my neck about halfway. The transition from bald skin into bristles was flawless, and the hair gradually got a little longer, tapering up the sides and back, until it melded seamlessly with the longer hair on top.

The top was perfection personified. The hair lifted away from the part, showing how thick my hair was. The Brylcreem glistened and caught every ray of light. I noticed that Ron had also put oil in the bristly hairs on the side and back. Those hairs gleamed, almost as if they were lit from within.

The taper on my neck flowed perfectly into the thick, carefully combed longer hair on top.

That taper was the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. Thinking about the skill it took to create that perfect flow kinda staggered me.

I ran my hand up my neck and over my ears. A huge smile broke over my face. "Hot damn! That’s the most perfect haircut I’ve ever had."

I looked at Woody, and had a tear in my eye. I whispered, "Thank you."

Then my spirits plummeted. I had to admit it wasn’t a good look on me. I wanted to cry. My beautiful long hair was gone, and a now ugly military-looking man was staring back in the mirror. The good looking man I had been thirty minutes ago had disappeared.

I bucked myself up. "Good look on you or not, it’s a helluva good haircut. Wear it with pride." I looked at myself again.

Diary, how is that hair on the head doesn’t look like there’s that much there, but when it’s laying on the floor and cape, it seems like there’s massive amounts everywhere?

When I got out of the chair and saw the aftermath of my haircut, I couldn’t believe I had ever had that much hair on my head. Hair was EVERYWHERE! I stood there looking at it for a long time, just shaking my head in disbelief.

After we got back in the truck, Woody looked at me. "The way you shamed Ron was brilliant. He’ll have a decent haircut soon." He grinned. "I’ve been working on the bastard for years, and you come in with just a few sentences and get his attention. Well done."

"Thanks."

I sat there for a bit, completely lost, trying to figure out what I was feeling. Woody interrupted me. "Thoughts about the experience?"

I thought a little longer, and ran my hand up and down the back of my neck. "I love the feeling of rubbing my hand back there. It sends shivers down my spine."

He nodded. "I’m the same way." He absently rubbed his own neck. He looked at me as if he expected me to say something, but I was blank. Finally he spoke. "Any other thoughts?"

I found my thought process. "I love the way it looks, or, I would love the way it looks on someone else, but I hate the way it looks on me. Once again, I am forced to confront the fact that I don’t look good with short hair, despite the fact that I want to have short hair."

He shook his head. "I disagree with you. I know I’m biased, but I think you look much better. You look bolder and more confident, and the style really suits you."

"You really think so?"

"I do." He backed out of the parking lot, and started back to drop me off. "How are you feeling about it? Ready to face the world?"

I shook my head. "I’m not sure. Part of me is saying, ‘Hell, yeah, it’s about time’. The other part of me is saying, ‘What the hell have you done? Go hide until you get some hair on your head."

He laughed. "Like you, I agonized over whether to cut my hair or not for a long time, and I felt the same way when I finally went back to short hair. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not. Fortunately, I had some positive experiences early on, and it helped me feel confident that I had made the right choice. I hope you have the same experience."

"Me too!" I sat in silence for a moment. "Woody, would you mind me asking you a professional question?"

"Go for it."

"What makes me so fascinated by old fashioned things like short hair and pipes? Am I crazy?"

He pondered his response for a while. "I have studied this in depth, and I can’t believe most of what the so-called scientific community has put forward as answers to this question. I can buy some of it, to a point, but a lot of it just doesn’t make sense to me." Another pause. "You’re probably gonna want to call the guys with the white suits, and have them put me in a mental institution after I tell you this, but if you’ll listen, I think it might help you get some peace of mind."

"I’ll believe in unicorns, fairies and leprechauns if it will quiet the demons in my head."

"I had wondered if you thought of your desire as demons."

I blurted out, "What the hell else could it be? Surely nothing natural could torment me so." I looked at him. "What are your thoughts?"

"I believe in reincarnation. It’s the only thing that could explain why I am so fascinated by an era I never lived through. Have you ever thought about that?"

I was stunned. "No, I haven’t, but on the surface, it makes sense. I’m going to have to think about this for a while."

"I know you’ll need a lot of time to really think about it, but go ahead and take a few minutes to see if you can find fault in my reasoning." He spoke back up. "Don’t be afraid to tell me if you think I’m wrong. If my theory is not right, I need to know it, so I can wrack my brain for other explanations."

I thought furiously for a while, and then grinned at him. "I think you just told me something that will help me deal with a lot of personal issues. Your theory really makes sense, and helps me feel not so crazy. One of my past lives pushing through my subconscious is logical…and a lot easier to believe in than demons. Thanks."

"Do you need moral support on your first foray out into public? We could stop at the mall. Maybe having someone who looks like you when you go out in public will help."

I shook my head. "I couldn’t ask you to do that."

He grinned. "I think we’ve already had this conversation once today. You’re not asking, I’m volunteering."

"You’re right, we did have this conversation, and thank you. I think it would be nice to walk the mall with some moral support. Are you sure you don’t mind?"

He didn’t answer, he just took the cutoff that led to the mall.

After parking, he looked at me. "Nervous?"

"Nervous as a whore in church, but let’s do this." I opened the door, and he cleared his throat.

"Aren’t you forgetting something?" He pushed his basket of pipes toward me.

I laughed. "I was hoping you would forget."

He got serious. "I’m not trying to force you into something you’re not comfortable with, but don’t you think it’d be easier if you just conquered all your fears at one time?"

I picked up his biggest pipe. "You may be right."

He grinned when he saw which pipe I had, but didn’t say anything.

We walked into center court, and right into a group of my friends. My first reaction was to turn around, but somehow I got the courage to walk up to them. "What in the hell are you clowns doing out here?"

Jake looked at me. "You sound like Thomas Wayne, but you sure as hell don’t look like him." He pointed at my head. "What the hell happened to your hair?"

I pointed at Woody. "He happened. Woody, I’d like you to meet my friends John, Jake and Don."

None of them looked at Woody as they shook his hand. All of their eyes were glued to my head.

John (who had the longest hair) spoke up. "I can’t believe you cut your hair. It was amazing!" He looked at me a second longer. "I also can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I like your new look. It suits your zany personality." He looked again. "Oh. My. God! You’re smoking a pipe. What the hell, dude?"

I grinned. "I’ve smoked a pipe as long as you’ve known me. You just didn’t know."

He shook his head.

Don seemed to be struggling to find his voice. "Where did you get it cut? The barber did a good job."

"I’ll let Woody tell you about the barbershop." Then I grinned. "Just be careful, he’s a zealous evangelist, and he’ll convert you to The Church of the Short-Haired if you’re not careful." I winked at Woody.

We talked for a few minutes, and walked away. Woody looked at me. "I was impressed with how smoothly you pointed Don my way. I may have to make you the associate pastor in The Church of the Short-Haired. You’re already doing the work, I might as well give you the title." He looked very satisfied. "Mark my word, I’ll have Don in a barber chair within a week."

I had worked in the mall for years, and I knew a lot of people. I talked to as many people as I could (rather courageously, I thought), and I think Woody got a few more prospects to proselytize.

After walking the mall, Woody looked at me. "Ready to leave?"

"Yes, sir, and thank you. You were right. Having you here made it easier."

"Was it as bad as you thought it would be?"

I mulled my answer for a second. "At first it was, but it got easier with each person I talked to." I laughed. "I really thought a lot of people would give me hell about the pipe. Only one person commented."

"They were so shocked about your hair, they didn’t notice, but next time they see you, they’ll remember that you had a pipe in your mouth, and not make a big deal out of it." His eyes glowed. "I’m really proud of the way you handled things. Good job, good sir."

We got in the truck, and Woody looked at me. "Any thoughts on whether you’ll keep your hair short?"

"To be honest, I don’t know for certain, but I expect I’ll keep it short for a while. I may not keep the same style, but I’ll probably keep it short."

He laughed. "Ah ha! The demons are loose, huh?"

"You’re damned straight they’re back, and right now, I don’t think I’ll be fighting to lock them back up." I grinned. "They’re already telling me I look good now, but I’d look better with a flattop."

I howled, "Demons, you’re in control. Just tell me what’s next."

Dear friend, I don’t know whether to be proud of myself for doing what I wanted, or ashamed of my actions, because I released the haircut demons in all their power. Make no mistake, the demons are back in control, and I know I will once again be visiting random shops, or getting shorter and shorter hair. It’s inevitable until I find the strength to wrestle the demons back into their closet.

I think I lied to Woody. I will be fighting with everything I have within me to lock those bastards back up.

Now, if I could get that damned evil leprechaun to stay out of my dreams, I’d have it made.

Good night, Mr. Diary.
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The third (and final) part of this story is in progress.

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