Of Leprechauns, Elephants and Barbers 3 by Just_Me

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March 20, 1993

Good morning, my faithful friend. I have to record my thoughts from last night to clear my mind before I start the day.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph…(dear god, I’m sounding like Mr. Bane. Where did I come up with Jesus, Mary and Joseph? I have never said that before. Mr. Bane is now haunting my waking moments as well as my dreams!)

Anyway, I tossed and turned all night, because I have a hideous idea in my head. The demons are really pushing me, and I greatly fear I am going to give in to them today, and do something extremely foolish. In addition to my foolish idea, my nightmares continued again last night. I hope the nightmares are just the excitement of getting my hair cut (which, by the way, I still love), and that the nightmares are not going to become a pattern.

Between the grotesque idea and the nightmares, it was a night from a horror movie.

In my dreams, Mr. Bane showed up, and started talking to me. I couldn’t understand what he first said. He got pissed because he thought I was ignoring him and snapped his fingers. All of the leprechauns from my previous nightmares showed up in my bedroom, along with some I had never seen. There were hundreds of them. Magic ropes appeared in their hands again, and soon I was tightly bound. I flew out of the bedroom and into the living room, and discovered that the barbershop in my previous dreams had been placed in the living room.

Mr. Bane smiled. "Fear ye not. Tis true that tonight we be not here to torment you. It is in good spirits that we be this night, and a wish of your heart shall be granted to you." He smiled. "Wee folks know things, and we know what you really want."

He murmured an enchantment, and I could feel my new fresh haircut growing out. Soon my hair was brushing my shoulders, and touching my chin. A tear leaked out of my eye. "Damn it, I really like my haircut!" A glance in the mirror told me that I once again had red and orange hair. Disgust welled up inside of me. "Why red and orange? Why not black?"

I didn’t realize I had spoken my thoughts out loud until Mr. Bane replied. "Red be the only color proper for a leprechaun, and be ye careful of how you speak. Ye don’t want the wrath of the leprechauns upon ye."

I was instantly chastised. "I’m sorry, Mr. Bane. I meant no disrespect." Then I thought, "Like hell I didn’t, but at least this is just a nightmare, not a reality."

He grinned. "Tis knowing I am that what you said is bollocks. Disrespect ye did intend, but I shall let it slide since ye apologized so nice."

He pointed to the leprechauns, and they started dancing and chanting. I watched in fascination as the now familiar process of the barber turning into an elephant happened.

"Tis a shame to destroy such beautiful hair, but destroy it we must! Yon barber, do what you are tasked with. Give this wee man what he seeks."

The elephant/barber trumpeted in triumph.

Once again he circled my head with the clippers several times before he turned them on. The sound of the bees terrified me.

For the second time (third, if you count the images he put in my head last night) I went through the shame of him shaving a MPB on the top of my head. I started sobbing.

Mr. Bane snarled, "Bí ciúin!"

"I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand."

"Och! It is forgetting I am that ye have not the Gaelic. ‘Bí ciúin’ means naught but be quiet."

To make matters worse, every clump of hair that fell sounded like a mighty tree falling in the forest. I could feel the vibrations of locks hitting the floor through the seat in the chair. It seemed like each wad of hair was a heavy boulder, and the reverberations made me jump.

The elephant made a sound that let me know he was displeased with me. After I jumped the second time, he put one of his massive feet on my head, which made it impossible for me to jump again. Oh, his foot was so heavy, and it hurt so badly.

Somehow he was able to clip all the hair off the top of my head without taking his foot off of it.

He turned the clippers off, and took his foot off my head. A glance in the mirror told me that I was completely bald on top again. He picked up the straight razor, and shaved my head again.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, they did. The haircut I was going to get was far worse than the Benjamin Franklin look I had got previously.

The elephant blew on the hair hanging over my left ear. A low part appeared not far above the ear. He blew again, and all of the hair above the part flew over my now bald top.

The elephant used his trunk to swing the chair around, and nodded to Mr. Bane. A few more enchanted words from him made an oil chalice appear over my head. It tilted at Mr. Bane’s muttered direction, and poured a thick stream all over my head. I could feel the oil dripping down my neck, and had to close my eyes to keep it from getting in them.

The elephant stepped up to the chair, and turned the clippers back on. The sound of the bees increased in volume, until I could hear nothing but the buzzing. Slowly, oh so slowly, he peeled all the hair below the part off, removing the last resemblance to Franklin.

I started screaming and cursing. "Ye wee bastards! I will pay you back for this. I pray you burn in hell for all eternity."

Mr. Bane uttered a curse, and glued my lips together. Fire shot from his eyes, and he yelled, "Many times a man’s mouth has broken his own wee nose. Be silent." He seemed to get his emotions under control, and looked at me. "We be here to offer you a boon, and offer us curses, do ye? Be sure, I shall offer my own curse. I curse you with the desire to keep this haircut for all eternity!"

He nodded to the barber, who trumpeted again, and kept cutting my hair. My neck was shaved two fingers high, followed by the hair above the other ear.

After shaving where he had just clipped, he picked up the comb and combed the hair that had been covering my bald spot so that it hung over my left shoulder.

Mr. Bane cackled. "Look and behold how ridiculous you look. Tis a laughingstock of the community ye shall be!"

I looked in the mirror and he was right. I looked ridiculous with hair hanging to my shoulder on one side, a bald top and peeled hair above the ear on the other side. I shuddered in disgust.

The elephant/barber blew the hair back over my bald scalp, and I could feel it tickling the ear on the other side. Instead of cutting that hair where it blended in, he just left me with a weird bunch of hair from the combover hanging over the ear.

He deftly picked up a can of hairspray, and plastered everything in place.

Mr. Bane inspected my head closely, and then smiled at the barber. "Pleased I be with the way ye look. I offer ye the joy of it. Good night." He gave me a terrible grin. "Good night until the morrow. I shall be seeing ye again then."

I woke up in a cold sweat, and ran to the bathroom to make sure it had been a dream. Relief flooded over me when I saw I still had my short back and sides. "Buddy, you really are losing it. You need to find a therapist, sooner rather than later."

Oh, one more thing, dear diary. The demons took me at my word yesterday when I said, "Demons, you’re in control. Just tell me what’s next."

I am contemplating doing the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I have a crazy idea, and I think I’m going to do it. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about it…I don’t know whether to ask you to wish me luck for me to find the nerve to do it, or beg you to pray for strength for me to withstand the onslaught of crazy, ignorant, stupid thoughts. I’ll let you know how it turns out tonight.

OK, my ever faithful friend. I will leave you for the day, but I will be back tonight to tell you how my day went.

I walked up to Bill as soon as I got to work, and tried to stay close to him. I wanted to find something to challenge him to bet with me about. We worked a while, and he looked at his watch. "Damn it, Sheila is late again. I need her."

"Are you a betting man?"

"I’ve bet on a few things, but it’s not something I normally do. Why?"

"I woke up in a crazy mood this morning, and I’m wanting to bet on something. Do you have any ideas?"

He laughed. "You’re nuts!"

"No. I’m serious. Let’s make a bet on what time Sheila gets here. I’ll start the bet, saying she’ll get here within five minutes."

"You are certifiable. Sheila is ALWAYS at least twenty minutes late, normally forty."

"Not always. Once or twice a year she gets here on time." I stuck my hand out. "I’m feeling lucky. I’ll bet you that she’ll be here in five minutes, or less."

I had slight hopes that she would be there earlier than normal. I had really dressed her down the week before about her tardiness, and she promised she would do better. In my heart I knew she was just saying what she had to to get me off her back, but I was almost hoping she meant it.

He seemed to think about it. "What are we betting for?"

I acted like I was thinking, and then I looked at him. "I know. If you win, I get a haircut like yours. If you win, you shave that monstrosity off." I mentally congratulated myself. "Either way, you win. If you have to get a haircut like Bill’s, it might make Mr. Bane disappear. If Bill has to shave his head, you won’t have to look at the disgusting mess on his head every day."

"Are you serious?"

"You bet your sweet ass I’m serious. I’m serious as a heart attack. If I lose, I get a haircut like yours." I pointed at the top of my head. "All of this disappears, completely shaved and I have a combover like you." I pointed at his head. "If you lose, you get rid of the monstrosity that’s been riding on your head ever since I’ve known you."

He stuck his hand out. "Deal!" Then he pulled his hand back. "If I win, you have to keep your hair just like mine for two weeks. I’m not gonna be fooled into you showing up with a combover, and then shaving it the next day."

I don’t know where the idea came from, but I grinned at him. "I’ll sweeten the pot. I’ll keep it for four weeks, and not call in sick unless I’m in the hospital."

"Four weeks, no call outs and no hats? I want to be able to see this every time I look at you."

"Done, done and overdone. That’s my final deal. Are you going to go through with it? After all, you stand to risk losing ALL of your hair." I gave him an evil grin and pointed at his head. "However little hair you may actually have. If I lose, I’ll at least have some hair left." I made some buzzing sounds, and acted like I had clippers going around his head…much like the elephant did to me.

Bill laughed, "I’m going to enjoy this. There’s no way you’re going to win." He pointed at his watch. "It’s 9:00. If she’s not here by 9:14, you’re clocking out and going to the barbershop."

We shook hands on it…and immediately started chastising myself. "Why in the name of hell did I agree to no hats?"

I had to get the last dig in on Bill. "Could I stay on the clock to go get the haircut?"

He laughed. "Why not? It’ll give you a little compensation for the stupidest thing you’ve ever done."

The agony of waiting for Sheila was agonizing. I was so afraid she would show up within five minutes, but almost frantic with worry that she wouldn’t.

Five minutes passed, and Sheila wasn’t there. Bill pointed to the parking lot. "Off to your truck with you, and hurry back. I can’t wait to see Mr. I’m-so-proud-of-my-hair-Thomas with a combover."

I started toward the car. "Hey Bill, do you still have that picture of you hanging on your office wall from last year’s picnic? I need something to show the barber how ugly I want to look."

"Stay there. I’ll be right back."

Bill brought me the picture, and then looked me over. "Tell me the truth. You had planned to shave your head as soon as you showed me your haircut, right?"

I grinned. "Damn, I’m so busted. Yes, I was going to do that. My competitive spirit got ahead of my rational thought, but I’ll honor my word."

"I’ll bet you are really regretting agreeing to no hats, aren’t you?"

I laughed. "Did I agree to that? I must be a damned fool."

"You’re damned right you agreed to it. If I see a hat on your head, I’m burning it."

I decided to go back to see Ron, even though I hated the thought of him destroying the perfect haircut he had created the day before.

I took the long way to the barbershop, and stopped to get a Dr. Pepper, thinking, "Put it off as long as you can, you moronic asshole. What the hell were you thinking?"

When I couldn’t think of any other delaying tactics, I pulled into the barbershop and sat there, trying to get the courage to go in. I pulled a pipe out, and lit it, hoping it would help calm my nerves.

It did nothing to help me.

The first thing I noticed when I walked in was that Ron had much shorter hair than he had the day before. It was a pretty short taper, not the short back and sides I had hoped for…but it was progress. I had to laugh. I thought, "Woody will have Ron knocked into shape before long. This is just the first step."

Ron tried his Irish accent out on me. "Och aye! Surely you be not here for another scalping! Did I not just yesterday clean you up a wee bit?" He laughed. "It’s been my observation that people often decide to go shorter after their first ‘real’ haircut. Ready to try a flattop now? It’d look mighty good on you."

"No, sir. You see, I lost a bet with my boss this morning, and I have to get a haircut like his."

"What style are you looking at?"

I handed him the picture of Bill.

"That’s Bill. I know him well. I’ve been cutting his hair for years."

I was shocked. "You’re responsible for his nasty haircut?!"

"Whoa! I didn’t say I was responsible. He’s the one responsible. He made the decision to look like that. I just cut his hair like he wants it."

"Well, now you get to cut mine like his."

He got a sick look on his face. "You mean just like Bill’s?"

"Yes, sir. Bald scalp with a combover."

He shook his head. "I don’t know if I can do that to a beautiful head of hair like yours."

"I have faith in you. Now, let’s get it done."

"I really need some liquid courage before I start this. I just don’t know…"

"Go ahead, if you’ve got it. You being drunk is not going to make this haircut look any worse than it’s already going to."

He grinned. "Barbers are notorious drinkers, and I’m a barber to the bone. I always have booze around." He looked at the picture again and shook his head. "Are you serious?"

"Sure!"

"Sure about the drinks or the haircut?"

"Both." I paused, "If you’ve got some booze, I want a triple shot."

He walked into the back room and walked out with a bottle of Jack Daniels. He handed me a paper cup. "You’re going to need this worse than I do. Help yourself."

He didn’t bother with a cup. He upended the bottle, and emptied about half of it. He shivered and asked again. "Are you sure?"

"A bet is a bet. Just do it. I don’t want to have to dread it any longer."

He picked up a comb. "OK, don’t say I didn’t try to talk you out of it."

"Hell, I’m still trying to talk myself out of it, but I can’t. I gave my word. Now just cut my damn hair."

He parted my hair fairly high on my head, and combed it over my ear. "This is where I’m going to start shaving."

"Don’t talk about it. Just do it."

"Are you sure you want the combover? It would look less outrageous if you just shaved a bald spot on the top of your head."

"A deal is a deal. I want the combover."

He shook his head. "It’s your hair, but don’t you dare tell anyone I had anything to do with this. It would ruin my reputation."

"Your secret is safe with me. Now, for about the hundredth time, cut my damned hair."

He sighed. "I really don’t want to do this."

"I don’t want you to either, but you’ve got to. It’ll look worse if I take the clippers away from you, and do it my damned self, which is what I’m going to do if you don’t start cutting my hair."

"Ok, ok. Hold your horses. I need a little more liquid courage, and then I’ll start."

He drank another quarter of a bottle. I thought, "I’d be passed out on the floor if I drank that much in one sitting, and he still seems to be functioning normally. How the hell does he do it?"

He slammed the bottle down, picked up the clippers and plowed down the center of my head so quickly that it all seemed to be one movement.

The first pass of the clippers turned me into a trembling bowl of jelly. I thought I was going to pass out, but parts of my anatomy responded to the sound of the clippers.

He finished with the clippers. "I left the combover fairly thick, so it wouldn’t look as bad. From a distance, it will just look like you have a really low part."

I shook my head. "That is cheating. I just want a little to comb. I want it to be obvious."

"Ok. I’m trying to help you out, and you’re shooting me down at every turn."

He shaved more. "Is that enough?"

"More. It has to be as sparse as Bill’s, so everyone knows it’s a combover."

"Like I said, it’s your hair, but I think you’re gonna regret it."

"Oh, I already regret it, but I have no choice. Dad always taught me the only way you could morally back out of your word is if you were dead."

"I imagine you’re gonna get so much crap you’re gonna wish you were dead."

I sighed. "I’m afraid you’re right." I whispered, "I am so afraid you’re right, chief."

He turned the clippers back on, and removed more hair from the top, and then picked up his razor. "I think I’m going to be sick about doing this."

"I’m sick too, but would you wait until you get my hair done before you throw up? I don’t want to deal with the anxiety any longer than I have to."



I heard the familiar whoosh as he dispensed shaving cream into his hand, followed by the very unfamiliar feel of his hand on my bare head as he spread the shaving cream on the top of my head. The sound of him sharpening the razor on his strop seemed to fill the shop.

He shaved my head. "Damn it, I’m going to try again. I can still see the shadow of your thick hair. This looks dumber than I had imagined it would."

I gave him a sick grin. "Thanks for the kind words. They really make me feel better."

After he finished shaving my head for the third time, he said, "You might want to get some makeup the color of your skin. It might help cover the shadow of your hair, and make this look slightly more realistic."

I grimaced. "Good idea. I think I’ll try it. It can’t look any worse."

He sighed as he turned the chair around for me to see what I looked like. "I did the best I could."

Tears streamed down my face when I looked at myself. It was even worse than in my dreams, and my dreams had been beyond horrific.

All I could think was, "The combover looks ridiculous on a sixty-something year old man like Bill. It looks even worse on a twenty-seven year old, who obviously has a head full of hair."

Ron had been right. Despite the fact that he shaved me with the razor three times, you could still see that I had hair growing under the sickly white skin on my head.

I didn’t even say bye when I left. I could see Ron through the window, and he didn’t look happy as he finished off the bottle of Jack Daniels.

I sat in the truck, trying to get the courage up to go back to work. Finally, I screamed, "Dammit! What the hell did I just do?" Somehow, yelling gave me the courage to start the truck, but I sat there a few more minutes before I backed out of the parking lot.

Bill was waiting for me in the parking lot. He wasn’t as obnoxious as I had thought he would be…but that’s not to say he wasn’t obnoxious. His first words were, "Hot damn, now I can pay you back for all the times you’ve stared at me with disgust in your eyes. I’m really going to enjoy this."

I turned to walk away, and he yelled, "Welcome to the world of the combover. You look even more ridiculous than I do. In fact, you look like sh!t, and I love it. No more pretty boy for you."

I looked at him. "Just shoot me, and put me out of my misery."

"Oh hell no! I’m not going to do anything but give you hell for the next few weeks."

Diary, I really owe Sheila a large bouquet of flowers and a written apology. I was really mean to her. Let me rephrase that. I was mean to her, and totally unfair.

I walked into work, and she was standing there. Her jaw literally dropped, and then she started laughing so hard that she had to sit down. I stood there like a fool watching her laugh.

She was finally able to gasp, "What happened to your hair?"

I snapped. I growled at her, "You happened, you stupid bitch!"

Her laughter stopped, and she looked scared. Maybe I sounded meaner than I realized.

"What do you mean?"

I started yelling. "I stupidly believed you when you told me you would start getting to work on time. I had so much faith in what you said that I made a bet with Bill that you would be on time. You didn’t keep your word, and now I’m stuck looking like this for four weeks. I should’ve known you were a goddamned liar! I hope you’re happy with yourself."

I started to stomp away, and turned back to her. "Stay the hell out of my way for the foreseeable future. If you see me, turn around. I’m sick of you, and don’t ever want to see you again!"

Tears welled up in her eyes, and I didn’t even have the decency to offer her some solace. I really am a messed up human being.

My faithful friend, I can’t even begin to describe the horror of what I faced today. Not only did I put myself through the trauma of willingly (and partially unwillingly) getting this dumbass haircut, but everywhere I looked today I saw disgust in people’s eyes. Disgust doesn’t even begin to cover what I felt radiating out from people. I feel as if I’ve been bathing in a sea of loathing all day…and I have twenty-seven more days of this. I really don’t know if I’m going to make it. Honestly, suicide is looking very attractive now.

I’m going to stop writing now, and go get drunk. The demons, or leprechauns, or my own mental derangement have done all the damage they can do. I don’t care if the booze brings them back. Maybe the alcohol will make me feel better for a few minutes.

Dear diary, I’m back, and my writing is probably going to suck since I’m so drunk.

On another note, I think I’m going to start growing a mustache. I think a huge handlebar would draw the attention away from the hideous combover that I now love so much. The curse of the leprechauns must be real. I can’t get over my fascination with my combover, no matter how much I hate it. I really need to consider checking myself into a mental institution.

I’m going to go crawl under the covers, and pray the death angel visits during the night, so I won’t have to face anyone again looking like this.

21 March 1993

"Ugh" is the only word I can come up with to describe my night…other than hellish, horrendous, hideous and haunting.

My pillowcase looks awful from all the oil on it. How can I have so little hair, but still have enough on it to make a mess on the pillowcase? I’m afraid to look and see what the pillow looks like. I’ll probably have to buy another one after this fiasco is over.

Was it just a few days ago that I was congratulating myself on having enough hair to have bedhead? You can’t imagine what a combover looks like after a night of tossing and turning. I literally look sickening…and I still have to face shaving my head, and trying to put makeup on, to cover my hair shadow. What a great way to start the morning!

Mr. Bane and his cohorts showed up in my dreams again last night. They howled with glee, and did little victory jigs all around me. The taunts they threw at me stung like hundreds of bees.

Mr. Bane crowed three times, and he sounded just like a rooster. He pointed at me. "Three times does it take to make our magic stand firm, and thrice have we woven our spells around ye. From henceforth, no matter how long ye may let your hair be, or how long ye live, ye shall always be consumed with lust for a bald pate, and a few strands of oily hair to cover it. This is our final curse upon thee. We shall leave ye be for the time being, knowing that our curse is final, and there be no cure for it."

I figured they had done the worst to me that they could, and I tried to speak to them in a way they could understand. "Ye wee bastards, curse me ye did, but I pray to the blessed trinity and the holy Virgin Mother that the curse you put upon me is returned upon you threefold. I call upon all the gods and goddesses of ancient Ireland, and pray ye and all your descendents know the pain you have put me through a hundred times over."

"I’ll burst ye for that, ye wee gobs**te! How dare you?"

I silenced him when I said, "What worse can you do to me? You’ve ruined my life. Killing me would be a kindness."

Mr. Bane snarled a curse, and disappeared (hopefully forever) taking his legion of devilish leprechauns with him.

Dear diary, why did I make such a foolish bet with Bill? OK, making the bet, I can see. I guess I was curious about his hairstyle, but why did I agree to keep it for four weeks, and more importantly, why did I agree to not wear a hat? At least a hat would have kept me from experiencing the worst of the shame I endured yesterday, and the agony of experiencing it again and again.

I really wish I could dig a hole to China, and hide there for a year or two.

I keep asking myself, were the leprechauns real? It almost seems so to me. How else would you explain me going from despising a combover, to lusting for one, while still hating it if there was no magic involved?

I’m even thinking about keeping it after my four weeks are up. How stupid can one person be? I guess I’m proof that they can be pretty damned stupid. I prefer to hope that I’m not that stupid, and that my actions were caused by their evil enchantment. It would be much easier to bear if that were the truth.

I’m left with one question. Was it the demons, the leprechauns or something weird in me that drove me to get a combover?

Diary, I don’t expect you to know the answer to those questions. God knows I don’t have a damned clue how to respond to it.
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I found this old, unfinished story in my files. When I started it almost five years ago, I couldn’t find the rhythm I wanted, so I shelved it. I recently pulled it back out, and finished it.

Even after I pulled the story out, and started working on it, I couldn’t get the flow until I asked myself three questions.
1. What’s the worst possible haircut that I could inflict on him?

2. What would be the worst possible way for him to get that haircut?

3. What’s the worst possible outcome of getting that haircut?

The answers were immediately in my head. To me, the combover is the most absurd haircut around, and I ran with it. Being forced into getting such a strange haircut would make things extremely horrific. Finding out I loved it would be even more traumatic.

Fortunately, I had worked with Bill for several years (yes, he’s a real person), and I had him as an inspiration. I reworked the story, weaving Bill into it. (Having said that, I have never had a combover, even after my hair started thinning. I can’t imagine dealing with it.)

Woody is also a real person, and he was responsible for me giving in to my demons and getting a short back and sides. I met him at work, and our first meeting was almost verbatim to what I described. I didn’t go to the shop with him that day, although he did offer. He came in several times after that, proselytizing me. He did take me to the barbershop, but it was probably several weeks after we first met. I felt like I knew him, and that I would be safe with him. The trip to the mall was also real. We were friends until his death.

I did record a leprechaun dream in my journal, but just one, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as the ones I wrote about. There’s a lot of pure fiction in the recounting of the dreams.

I remember thinking when I started writing this that I wanted to do something out of the ordinary, unusual and off the beaten path. I think I achieved that. I hope the idea and execution wasn’t too bizarre.

Whether the story is worth a damn is up for you to decide. No matter what the consensus is, it was fun writing the story.

One final thought, I have no idea if my attempts at creating the speech pattern of leprechauns is anywhere close to accurate…or as close as you can be for mythical creatures. Hopefully I got it close enough that I didn’t offend anyone. If I butchered the Irish way of speaking from long ago, please forgive me. It was not my intention to be offensive.

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