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A Slickening Story
by Wes Wilson
Do you know that man with the perfect hair? You know the person I am talking about. He's older than you are, more handsome, and much more prosperous. You know him, don't you? We'll call him Slick. That's the nicest name I can think of on short notice.
Several weeks ago I was leaving church and a friend of mine commented on the nice shiny car parked by the curb. "You know," I said, "that's ol' Slick's car."
"Man!" my friend said. "Has Slick not got the best looking car AND the best looking head of hair in the whole county?" He shook his head in bewilderment. "How does he do it? There's never a hair out of place." Laughing and still shaking his head, my friend continued on his way. "How does that guy do it?"
Now, let me say that every hair on Slick's head is his own, not like that guy on television -- what is his name? Oh yeah, Bill Anderson -- Whispering Bill. I've got to tell you, his rag is the most awful thing I have ever seen in my life. Somebody should tell him, really.
Anyway, I was going over my portfolio of ideas about the curses put on certain families by way of hair or lack thereof, and mine is certainly not the worst, but could stand improvement for sure. My older brother ever waits to see me, I am sure, for he always points out that he is keeping more of what the Good Lord gave him and is sure to point to my gray glint as proof he is surely the better man.
As always, I take the ribbing good-naturedly and never point to the fact that he combs his hair forward so as not to draw attention to this same root recession as I -- this follicle production slowdown, this genetic uncertainty that cannot be altered. As for me, I just let what is left lie where it wants, wild and untamed, gray or not. After all, decreasing value is not technically a loss until it is sold or totally forfeited. At least that's what they tell me up at the NYSE.
Now, ol' Slick can wear a hat, walk through a windstorm, hail, sleet -- it doesn't seem to matter; there is never a hair out of place. As a matter of fact, I have sat behind him in church, and if you're there you can say you don't, but I know you also do. Do what? You watch the back of his head.
He stands, he sits, the air conditioner blows, but his hair does not. That hair is the kind of "Do" that I just want to reach out and ruffle a bit, partly to see if it can be done, but also just to aggravate him a bit. The hair looks soft, but I can hardly keep myself from proving once and for all that the tamed fluff is really not some space age plastic or horsehair wig. You know the kind. Hair like that is just not fair.
I'm sure the folks with perfect hair keep their hairdresser choices a closely guarded secret, and I am sure Slick spends a fortune on hair care -- in a year maybe several hundred dollars, maybe even a thousand. Boggles the mind.
If I could ever get my hair to do what it used to do and there was some magic potion I could use to spray on it to hold it that length and position forever, then my hairdresser would be out of a job. Why heck, Slick's hairdresser would be out of a job too. What would that do to the local economy? Anyway, Marilynn cuts my hair just fine, and she can't be responsible for what happens after I leave her shop. I'm stuck with what I have and that is that. Anyway, it's what's under the hair that counts, right?
It's slickening, I tell you -- really slickening!
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Wes Wilson is a Mississippi Delta native and a lifelong resident of Bolivar County. His first novel, A Jealous God shares many of the insights and stories he has collected while living in the Delta. The book can be purchased from his website at Weswords.com. He lives in Cleveland, Mississippi, with his wife Allison and two children, Jessica and Austin.
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