The Fancy Hairs

Carl was middle-aged. He was free. He had new hair.

His circle of friends waited for him in the parking lot.

He approached them. They clapped him on his flannel-clad back. Carl kept his hands in the pockets of his new pants, the deepest shade of blue and skintight.

“That’s some crazy ass hair, Carl.” Steve was the first to notice.

“Crazy as shit,” Bob said.

“Fancy,” said Frank.

Carl had had his hair professionally permed that morning and was beginning to feel slightly embarrassed about picking such an ostentatious hairstyle. He nervously shifted from foot to foot and ran a hand over his fancy hair.

The next week they all stood in the same parking lot and they all had perms. They smoked their unfiltered cigarettes and whistled at the young girls as they got out of their cars.