Once
there, he tested his hair several more times, using a pair of
rusty scissors kept in a kitchen drawer. He stood in front of
the bathroom mirror, kitchen scissors in his hand. Every time
he cut, there were ear-piercing screams of agony and death. Even
raising the scissors to his head caused them to ripple, as if
in fear. There was no doubt about it.
Keith’s hair didn’t want to be cut.
Keith went immediately to bed, certain he was dreaming the whole
thing. He’d taken Janine out last night and he’d had
the fish; maybe he’d been poisoned or something and he was
actually sick. Yeah, that’s it, sick. Because hair doesn’t
scream, everybody knows that.
So Keith went to bed immediately and stayed there until the next
morning. He got up, remembered what had happened yesterday, and
retrieved the scissors. He again tried cutting his hair and again
the screaming. He dropped the scissors. He stood there in his
house, scared, bewildered, and starting to believe he was crazy.
Because things like this don’t happen to sane people. But
if that were the case, then no one else would be hearing the screams
either, and they did yesterday in the barbershop. Unless he was
really far gone and had imagined the whole thing, barbershop included.
He decided to find out.
He picked the scissors up and went next door to his neighbor’s
place. His neighbor, Alan, had moved next door a little over a
year ago and Keith had occasionally made small talk with him as
they’d bump into each other going to or coming from work
each day.
He went to Alan’s door and knocked. A moment later Alan,
still in his morning bathrobe, was standing there.
Holding the scissors out to Alan, Keith said, “I need you
to try and cut my hair.”
After Alan had the understandable reaction of incredulity, Keith
took a few moments and explained the situation. Alan didn’t
believe him, of course, but agreed to try to cut the hair anyway,
if for no reason than to get this crazy guy off his doorstep.
Alan snipped a lock of hair and then took several steps back upon
the blood-curdling screams that emerged. “Did you hear that?”
Keith asked.
“Yes,” Alan answered.
“Then I’m not crazy.”
“No, but you do have problems.”
Keith couldn’t have agreed more.
Thus began what was seemingly the longest period of Keith’s
life. Over the next several weeks he went to several doctors to
find out what was wrong. Some laughed him out the door. Others
took him seriously enough to try it out and were shocked when
his hair screamed. It got to the point where Keith instinctively
waited for the sound of some nurse dropping a tray or clipboard
at the sound. These doctors all ran extensive tests: MRIs, cat
scans, cranial measurements. They tested the few hairs they had
the nerve to cut. They even ran tests on his shampoo and conditioner.
But none of the tests found anything abnormal or different. No
one had the slightest idea why the hair screamed. They didn’t
even want to approach the question of how it screamed.
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