When
they arrived back outside the townhouses, Keith said, “I
should get going. Thanks for the evening.”
“Is there anything wrong?” Alan asked.
“No, nothing’s wrong, and it was a great evening.
I just need to get going. Thanks again.” With that, Keith
got out of the car and went inside.
Fifteen minutes later Keith got in his own car and drove to the
nearest Walgreen and bought electric shears and a new, sharp pair
of scissors. He went straight home, locked the front door and
drew the drapes shut. He took the shears and scissors into the
bathroom. He raised the scissors in one hand and brought his ponytail
up in the other. He looked at himself in the mirror, took a deep
breath and started cutting.
The screams were horrendous. It sounded like whole families were
dying at every snip of the scissors. Keith gritted his teeth,
squinted and kept cutting. A few mores snips and the ponytail
fell to the floor, the screams dying down into echoes.
Keith wasn’t done. He raised the scissors to his head and
began cutting the rest. He cut down as close to the skull as he
could. The floor around him was covered in a carpet of hair. It
was a massacre, a bloodbath, genocide.
About twenty minutes later a policeman arrived to investigate
reports of screaming from the apartment. Keith let him in and
showed him around. The policeman didn’t find anything out
of order. In fact, the only oddity in the entire apartment was
a bunch of hair lying on the bathroom floor. The policeman shrugged,
wished Keith a good night, and left.
And with that, it was over.
Keith moved to Florida, where he’d always thought of living.
He got a new job at a new bank and climbed up the ranks quickly
and successfully. He got that bank manager job he always wanted.
He married into a nice family, retired early, and bought a boat.
His hair, disciplined and chastened after Keith’s late-night
cutting, never bothered him again and he seldom thought about
it.
And he never ever mentioned it to anyone else, as long as he lived.
*******
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