'The Fitting', © 2024 Sarnia de la Mare.
'Have you come for a fitting today, Mr. Jones?'
The girl was pretty. All hairdressers are beautiful, thought Steve. But then, everyone under 30 was beautiful, once you reach fifty. The effortless beauty of youth walked the streets unabated for the pleasure of the old.
'Yes, that's right, but please call me Steve.'
Did I blush, he wondered? I bet I did.
You did, you are a dick, she wouldn't touch you with a bargepole, or a dead salmon.
The pretty girl told Steve to wait and that his personal hair consultant would be out presently.
I'm glad she whispered, you would have blushed like a tomato in a furnace.
'Hello, Steve! So good to see you, let's pop into the fitting studio.' Arabella was glorious. She was all woman, every inch of her beckoned attention. Peachy breasts peeped from a beautician's uniform and lipgloss shone like chrome on her perfect pout.
The salon was modern and swanky. It was polished with LA styling. Not that Steve had ever been to LA. The salon was where your dreams would come true, or so it said in their ad in the Esquire magazine.
Stop staring, Dickhead, they'll report you for being a pervert.
Arabella had gone over everything in great detail. Steve was now the proud owner of his very own sexual prowess.
When he arrived home he couldn't stop looking in the mirror. He was so handsome, a man in the prime of his life. The new hairpiece made him look at least ten years younger. Now he just had to get rid of that annoying belly. But, let's face it, he was sure to charm the ladies with his IT salary and new good looks. Besides, he had purchased a corset from the Esquire magazine which promised success in the sex department. Steve was dashing. He had even bought a fancy new car. He knew a girlfriend or two was on the cards. It was inevitable. Hairdressers would be falling at his feet. Maybe he could get one of those Botox nurses. He was still nervous to ask about such procedures at the salon. But there were posters on the walls and Steve had studied them in great detail. Now he was just like the men in the ads with his crisp suits and clean-shaven chin.
I may try a distinguished goatee for that debonnaire look, he thought to himself. Perhaps even a moisturizer, now that he had reached the dizzy heights of a desirable bachelor.
After supper, Steve sat down for a Tinder session. He took some selfies ensuring his new hair was displayed with no need for his usual comb over. Then he liked around thirty girls, ensuring they were in their twenties, a size ten, with long hair and clear skin.
Suddenly there was a shrill scream as the toupee landed on the floor.
'What are you trying to do, suffocate me?'
Ego crawled out of the bald patch and sat on Steve's shoulder.
'I thought you would like it!' Steve was aghast. Ego had been quiet all day since the salon visit.
'You look like a dick! People will laugh at you! What have I told you about being a dick?'
Ego was still coughing and spluttering.
They stared at the crumpled hairpiece on the floor. It was upside down with its rubbery peach lining and stray hairs stuck to the glue. 'This is not who you are, I keep telling you, you are an old git, a has-been who never got laid. Accept it and move on then we can both be happy, said Ego.'
Steve thought for a bit.
'I think you are gaslighting me,' he said. 'You are exercising coercive control. It's not fair.'
'Oh fuck off, dickhead,' said Ego, getting back into the hatch through Steve's bald patch.
Closing the lid he yelled, 'And throw that thing away!'
©2024 Sarnia de la Maré FRSA
