The Chicom Cold has shuttered our barber shops, and we've become so starved for any novel stimulation, intellectual or not, that head hygiene and grooming experimentation has become a widespread epidemic...
...too soon?
And..., the Colonel has to admit... he's become part of The Great Shagginess.
There once was a time that the Colonel's haircut motto was "once a week, whether needed or not." In fact, early in his career as a ruggedly handsome soldier of the sea, he bought a set of electric hair clippers and began cutting his own hair (or, at least what was left of it due to early onset follicle failure) every Monday morning shortly after reveille. Set on the lowest level, the Colonel's clippers cropped his blond mane so tightly against his shiny grape that on sunny days he was occasionally buzzed by search and rescue helicopters.
That $20 investment paid for itself in the first month. The Colonel has been plowing the savings on barber shop visits (and comb purchases) back into his gunpowder addiction ever since. He hasn't counted either recently, but the Colonel is relatively certain that the number of hairs left on the top of his brain housing group are greatly outnumbered by the lead launchers in his gun safe.
It occurred to the Colonel the other day that he had the wherewithal to be of service to his fellow man and do his part to fight back against the scourge of The Great Shagginess.
The Colonel's best friend -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- came looking for the Colonel the other day,
"There you are, knucklehead," she cooed, finally finding the Colonel sitting in a chair at the end of the long drive winding from the Big House down to the county road.
(Some may think her tone was more condescending that coo, but most don't know the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda like the Colonel does. One man's condescension is another man's coo.)
"What are you doing? And, why do you have your generator down here."
"Silly dear," the Colonel cooed (the Colonel doesn't dare condescend to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda), "they won't run without electricity."
"What won't run?"
"These," the Colonel answered, holding his hair clippers aloft in his palms as if presenting an offering to the gods of shorndom.
"Your hair clippers? You haven't touched those in over two months? Why are you cutting your hair down here at the road?"
"The Colonel is not cutting his own hair, dear."
"Well, why not? You're starting to look like you just staggered down out of the mountains at the end of a long winter."
The Colonel ignored the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's lack of geographic knowledge -- there's not a mountain anywhere near staggering distance from his vast land holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. Instead, he addressed her query regarding his operational pause in the grooming standards attack,
"Haven't had a reason to get a haircut or shave, lately. You know the Colonel only shaves when he goes to church, and we haven't been allowed to meet in person for the past two months, so..."
The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda stood in front of her man with her arms crossed in that endearing way that the Colonel knows means that she's trying very hard to fathom the depths to which her love for him dives.
"I'm trying very hard to remember why I love you," she stated in the matter of fact way she reserves for the moments when she attempts to control her emotions.
The Colonel was beginning to grow uncomfortable with his bride's struggle to find the right words to express her love and admiration for her man, "That's okay, dear. The Colonel knows you love him. But, as important as that is to you at this moment, there is a much more important mission on tap."
The Colonel stood and gestured to the scrap of plywood propped up by a feed bucket at his feet. In the Colonel's practiced military all-caps he had printed,
FREE HAIRCUTS
The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda looked at the sign and then back at the Colonel. The light in her eyes dimmed ever so slightly as if something in the very depths of her soul had just been placed on life support. She uncrossed her arms and let them fall to her sides in the dainty way that the Colonel knows means she is surrendering to his superior logic and intellect.
"Knucklehead, you aren't a barber. You can't give haircuts without a license."
The Colonel raised his right index finger in his time-worn signal that he is about to achieve and maintain argument superiority, "Don't need a license -- ain't chargin' nothin'. Besides, it's a free country."
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