Reviewathon 2018: Everyone's a Critic

The rap at the door was clearly urgent, because it wasn't even followed by a pause. The flimsy door that divided the barracks from the officer's quarters swung wide open, just as Colonel Robert Hogan was applying the day's first critical dab of Brylcreem to his hair.

"Message from London, Colonel," Sergeant James Kinchloe blurted, quickly followed by, "Uh, sorry, Sir."

There stood the colonel in his army-issue olive-drab boxers and t-shirt, peering into a mirror and styling his hair, which, it turned out, was surprisingly long in its untamed state. Once seen, this could not be unseen, though Kinch knew he would have to try.

The whiff of a mission in the air, even early in the morning before roll call, was enough to bring the other men tumbling out of their bunks and into the colonel's office. LeBeau, Newkirk and Carter piled in, in various states of deshabille.

"Hold on, hold on," Colonel Hogan said with an uncharacteristic squeak for punctuation as his small room filled up. "Can't a guy have a minute to get dressed around here?" He set down his Brylcreem on his table, pulled on his trousers, and crossed his arms with just enough irritation to make his hair flop right into his eyes.

"OK, Kinch, what is it?" he asked as he tucked various loose strands behind his ears. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Carter picking up the small red jar of Brylcreem and idly twisting the cap. Hogan suppressed an ungentlemanly urge to slap it out of his hand. He settled instead for a command, delivered with equal measures of sternness and annoyance:

"Carter! Put down my Brylcreem!"

That, and the downcast eyes of the other men, was enough to prompt the sandy-haired sergeant to fiddle with his buttons instead.

"All right, Kinch, let's have it," Hogan said with a sigh.

"A Luftwaffe General, Gotthard Ausberger, will be arriving in camp at 4 p.m. for an overnight stay with Klink. They're old friends from the academy," Kinch explained. "Ausberger has important papers stitched into the seam of his overcoat. London wants us to get the papers, photograph them, and then return them before he leaves."

As Hogan paced, he swished more wayward strands of un-Brylcreemed hair behind his ears. Good old London. Why did they have to send him an urgent directive at 6 am? And why couldn't everyone just clear out and give him two minutes to fix his hair?

"OK, men, I've got it. We'll…" Hogan said, wheels and cogs beginning to engage.

"Colonel," Carter spoke up.

"Yes, Carter?" Hogan replied.

"Have you ever thought of just getting it cut short? I mean, they cut mine really short the day I went into the Army, and I've gotta say, I don't miss it a bit. I had a little bit of a pompadour – Mary Jane really liked it- but this is really easy and I don't have to use any hair products. No maintenance, and …"

"Carter?" Hogan interjected. "Shut up."

"He does have a point, mon Colonel," LeBeau chimed in. "Short hair is much more en vogue today, and so easy to manage. I would be happy to trim it for you."

"No, it bloody isn't," Newkirk cut in. "Long hair will always be much more stylish. And Louis, I wouldn't trust you with a scissors anywhere near my face, thank you very much. I just don't go in for all that frippery with hair gels and whatnot – no offense, Sir – but it's not the length of the hair, it's the man behind the hair, that's what I think."

Having subdued LeBeau and Carter with the ferocity of his defense, Newkirk turned his attention now to the Colonel, offering sagaciously: "Maybe skip the Brylcreem, Guv'nor, and try just going with a more natural look. Um, Sir."

Newkirk looked around, and fell silent. Hogan sputtered wordlessly. Kinch stepped in.

"Guys. We're not here to discuss the Colonel's hairstyle. We've got a mission to do, and it's critical that we focus. Now cut it out. Listen to Colonel Hogan," Kinch said.

An avalanche of apologies followed:

"Gosh, sorry, Colonel."

"No offense, Guv'nor."

"Je suis très, très désolé que mes amis sont des idiots."

Hogan wasn't sure he got that last part, but he knew what he had to do. He pulled himself up tall and tried to look as commanding as he possibly could in sloppy hair and a t-shirt.

"Everyone, go to your room," Hogan said as he regained his composure. "Kinch, stay here. We have some planning to do. We'll all talk later. Roll call's in" – a quick check of his watch – "22 minutes. Dismissed."

"Well, I like it better shorter," Carter was telling Newkirk as he bumped past him through the doorway.

"With a fat head like yours, I'd want it short too," Newkirk replied, dramatically rubbing an arm where it had just made contact with Carter's elbow.

Alone at last with the only truly sensible member of his team, Hogan gestured to Kinch to sit down. He returned to his mirror, picked up the Brylcreem, worked the pomade from root to tip, and styled it neatly with a comb in 90 seconds flat. Then he turned to his trusted No. 2 as he pulled on his uniform shirt. Time to begin again.

"So what do you think, Kinch?" Hogan inquired.

"Me, Sir? I think I'd go with something shorter during wartime," Kinch replied thoughtfully.

"NOT THE HAIR, Kinch. The mission," Hogan replied. "Jeez Louise. Everyone's a critic."

===TO BE CONTINUED===

Yes, everyone's a critic, and you can be too! The 2018 Reviewathon will be under way from July 1 to July 8. The rules: Write 10 (or more) quality reviews of 100+ words and you will be eligible for glory, recognition, and maybe even a prize. We will also have daily challenges to keep the excitement up. Watch this space tomorrow for the complete rules.