He was young just a moment ago.
He knew it had been a mistake to meet his blind date at a bar called the Last Follicle. Even though he had put on his favorite little hat. Walked into the joint with wavy locks even a pre-Delilahfied Samson would have envied. All the girls loved his hair. Everyone did, really. He was the King of the Gigolos, he used to tell people; he enjoyed seeing the annoyed looks cross their jealous faces.
Blind Date Sally had asked, how will I know you, Sam? He’d said: “Oh, I have really long, luxurious wavy hair – the color of autumn chestnuts. In fact, it’s the best hair you’ve ever seen.”
And she had laughed and said: “Autumn chestnuts, huh? We’ll see about that.”
Then she suggested a little club he’d never been to. Said it was the hippest place in town, where all the models went. That would get him over there in a hurry, she thought.
He walked through the door of the strange little club, down at the end of Boiled Egg Alley.
Walking into the Last Follicle was his first mistake. But using the check-room was the second. A little voice said: “Sam, look out now, do not check your hat!” He looked around. “In here,” said the voice. “This is your pocket comb talking. I’m warning you, buddy, stay out of here! This place is dangerous!”
But he didn’t listen. He wouldn’t listen. I can do whatever I like, he thought: why, I’m Sam Samson, owner of the best head of hair in Chrome City. He looked into his pocket and glared. “Shut up,” he said to the comb. “Just shut up.” The hat check girl stifled a giggle.
But he left his youth in the check-room along with his hat…
Sally was not pleased. Her plucked eyebrows alone were angry enough for five ordinary women. “You disregarded the warning your comb gave you when it carried away your hair,” she said – which was one way of saying hello, perhaps.
“You read Kreml ads, I see,” Sam said. “Your dialogue is stilted, sister. And anyway, there’s something strange about this place.”
“It happens to be under the management of the Kreml Company,” Sally said. “And I am their top saleswoman.” She pulled a big bottle of Kreml from her tiny evening bag (how she did that he could not say). “Try this. It will make your hair behave without giving that sticky gigolo look.”
“Oh, so that’s your racket.”
“Yes, if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a sticky gigolo. And a girl has to be careful these days.” She stood up and smiled a scary little smile. “Bye bye, Sam. I think you’ll find that when you leave, if you put your hat on very carefully – and behave yourself with all those girls who like Byronic curls on a fellow – you might just get your hair back on the way home. Just – remember: skip the gigolo bit. And use Kreml – lots and lots of Kreml.”
Sam grabbed his hat and jammed it on his head as he ran up Boiled Egg Alley. And from deep within his coat pocket he heard muffled laughter.
[From Ad Access. Giant version here.]