Hal's Hair
Hal was ugly. Hal radiated ugliness. All those in a five metre radius of Hal became tarnished. Beauty queens in close proximity of Hal found their hair became greasy and spots broke out on their previously faultless physiognomies.
He couldn't help it. His girlfriend had left him and nothing could save his features now. Only three days ago he had been handsome. He was in love with her and she was in love with him. His finely chiselled nose and square chin serenaded all and sundry. Even his brother had noticed how gorgeous he looked and one of his flatmates had got drunk and had a long conversation with him about repressing the feminine side of the male persona.
But deception was a dreadful thing and they'd told lies to each other which blackened the roots of her bleached blond hair. Then they'd started fighting and Hal became Mr Average. It wasn't an immediate thing, he was just aware that whereas he used to sparkle in mixed company there was now something flat about his social persona. He'd become acutely aware of the moments when he was repeating stories to different people. He didn't believe he was boring anybody else, he was just boring, well, himself.
On Friday night his girlfriend stood him up. On Saturday morning she wouldn't answer his phone calls and by nightfall she'd been round and had that conversation with him. No there wasn't anyone else. Yes, maybe that was the problem. No she didn't want to play out his three in a bed fantasy just to find out if his interpretation of the problem was correct.
Sunday morning and Hal didn't exist. Sunday afternoon, he rematerialised in his own bed, lifted himself out of the darkness to discover that once he removed the stubble from his square chin he was, in short, plain. He had to face it. He had to face himself, staring back from the mirror. It wasn't even a cloakroom mirror which always makes you look three times worse than you actually are. It was his bathroom mirror. The one which had accompanied him on so many occasions - boosted his ego it needed - for God's sake, this was the mirror which had assured him on the night he'd got his girl. It had also told him how great he looked last Friday night - the bastard. And the mirror which had had the authority to convince him of his inert beauty now was damned sure he just looked like shit.
Staring at himself, searching for a redeeming feature, somewhere - anywhere - just made him more aware - green mirror tinge not withstanding - of how his complexion was failing. How his hair line was receding to avoid ever catching his eyes again.
Monday morning he went to the local barber shop. But they'd seen him coming, slammed the doors shut and ran the blinds down before he'd even reached the doorstep. Hal moped back to bed and ignored the answerphone messages of deep hate from one of his ex-girlfriend's girlfriends who did not want him to get back to either of them.
Tuesday. Resorting to DIY, Hal went to the supermarket. The cashier laughed as the tub of gel blinked past the laser reader. Half of Hal's mind could convince him the two events were unrelated. But it was the ugly half of his mind and he was damned if he was going to trust that.
Wednesday. Hal got into a hairdressers. He wasn't sure how the technique had worked, but he'd sort of pretended to adjust his hat and snuck through the door while the beautiful people inside were looking the other way. They stood no chance, deluded into believing the monstrosity at the shop window was preoccupied with smothering his appearance with that dreadful bobble hat. By the time they were remotely suspicious it was all over. Here he was. Hal the Ugly, asking for the life saving Kevin Keegan perm.
They tried diversionary tactics explaining that the process would take hours (weeks, actually, for someone with hair like Hal's) but he wouldn't be told. Moreover as he flicked through the magazines, an awful thing started to happen. The corners of Hal's mouth twitched and he began to enjoy himself.
The hairdressers had to respond quickly. An ugly man enjoying himself in their shop could spell complete disaster. They sent in their top stylist, armed with three tons of Paul Mitchell Hair Control Solution and an armful of 121 hair design magazines (making 726 different designs in all, although sadly only three for men).
Hal pretended surprise. Then he pretended superficial diffidence. Then he pretended he didn't know the difference between the two and the top designer pretended she did.
After that, it was war. Hal told the top stylist he actually had really good hair and it was the fault of someone else that he wasn't beautiful. This 'someone else' ranged between a good mate of his who'd cut his hair for a bet and God. The top stylist fell for this in a big way. Hal had found common ground and for the next twenty minutes the rest of the salon held their breath, sending in the occasional envoi with coffee and extra magazines.
After forty minutes, a rag-tag of a bob-with-neat-fringe had been carved out from the magazines and the two were now trying to decide whether it would turn Hal into an illusion of beauty or at least acceptability into reality. Achieving this look would take a blend of great topiary skills and astral projection and the top stylist was worried she wouldn't be up to it. She'd been in this situation before but lost out halfway through when ugliness reasserted itself and as a result, the entire salon had been converted into a pet shop.
With heart in her throat and scissors between her teeth she embarked upon the transformation scene.
Locks of hair hit the floor and were whisked away by the naive yet keen junior before they sizzled their way through to the basement coffee shop. Hal sat back and allowed a grin to play across his features. Not only was he enjoying himself but the salon was beginning to let him. Sure there were occasions when he thought the top stylist had taken too much off. There were occasions when she did. There were occasions when he thought she was doing this on purpose to test his reactions and sure enough there were occasions when she was.
The cut went through the worrying bulbous stage, out of the slightly damp and not doing much yet mode and straight into the flyaway statically charged doesn't know what's happening look. Both top stylist and Hal looked worriedly at the mirror. The hairstyle was threatening to usurp them both, make off for an area of cutting oblivion and assert its right to choose what shape of head it would sit on. The cut suddenly flinched in the direction of crap hair mate, Hal ducked and the top stylist slapped the cut down with a fistful of wet look gel. Hal picked himself off the floor and gazed, boggled eyes into the mirror.
As his sight cleared and the fuzzy tones calmed a little he saw a beautiful swan. He glided to the cash register where the junior charged him £24.97, he tipped the top stylist a tenner and asked her if she was doing anything later or what.
She accepted willingly.