Day 77: In which Stacy gets the chop

IMPORTANT NOTE: All deaths referred to in this post are entirely fictitious and have been duly but reluctantly imagined and narrated in deference to the colleague for whom “Stacy” is a pseudonym; said colleague has demanded in no uncertain terms that “Stacy” be terminated toot sweet, presto pronto, and without further ado.

It pains me to relate the tragic tale of a scholar cut down in her prime not by the scythe of Old Time, nor by illness or natural disaster but, rather, by the cruelest cut of all: that made by a hairdresser most foul. There is of course literary precedent for such barbarous barbering; think of the chaliced crown Medea sends to Glauce, who unknowingly places “upon her golden locks the garniture of death.” We dix-huitièmistes cannot help but recall the naughty Baron who snips Belinda’s lock with that fierce glittering forfex. And, of course, let’s not forget old Sweeney Todd, with his sterling silver razor.

But I am determined to keep this tale extremely short, as befits its subject matter, so let me cut to the chase, or rather to the haircut, which has more narrative significance in this tale than the chase (there is a chase though. Wait for it.).

I am afraid that the duck-rabbit was, unintentionally, the cause of Stacy’s untimely death. So persuaded was Stacy by my argument, in my previous post, that bangs, in the sharp, straight horizontal line they slice across a forehead, nicely counterbalance a head otherwise characterized by wavy vertical lines, so persuaded, I say, was she, that she became captivated, indeed, obsessed with the idea of possessing herself the blunt-cut bangs that would punctuate her own luxuriant tresses.

Yes, you’re quite right, this obsession did develop awfully quickly, just in the last twenty-four hours, in fact; indeed, this obsession possessed Stacy so quickly and so entirely that it might seem to strain credulity were it were not for the fact that Stacy is a woman and, as you are surely aware, women are prone to such fanciful obsessions, and they typically come on very fast, like a fever.

So Stacy made an emergency appointment with Tristan, her Beverly Hills stylist, and fairly demanded that the poor fellow cut her bangs in the spirit their name implies: that is, abruptly, suddenly, violently. Stacy thought that employing a violent method was the only way to produce the choppy bangs she so ardently coveted. Ever a perfectionist, she was not satisfied with the first cut. The bangs were soft and feathery, not cut “bang off” at all by poor Tristan’s trembling hands. Stacy grew furious. “Choppier! Slash those bangs!” she cried. After much dithering, Tristan finally gave in and slashed away, chopping and hacking and hacking and chopping until, well; I’m sure you’ve already guessed how this grim tale ends.

You’ve guessed it, he slashed so fiercely that by the time he was done, Stacy was completely bald. Refusing to heed my claims that she, if anyone, could carry baldness off with panache, she dashed out of the salon, ran to her car, drove at high speed to the La Brea tar pits and threw herself in next to the woolly mammoth. I tried to catch up with her (that’s the chase part! See; I told you it wasn’t that important …) but by the time I had parallel parked, it was too late: she had met her sticky end.

I will confess to you, dear reader, that I am truly grief-stricken. I will miss the heated debates in which Stacy and I loved to engage, debates which, as you will recall, ranged from the merits of Trader Joe’s versus Whole Foods peanut butter to the question of whether Samuel Taylor Coleridge was, technically speaking, more properly described as a cunt or a tosser.

Riposi in pace, Stace.

P.S.: Lunch at fac center on Friday, 12:30, yes?

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