**Written for FanFic 100!**
The Desperation of Thomas Traddles
Prompt: 062. Spring.
"This is not going according to plan," though Traddles dismally, as he peered into his greenish, cracked, spotted secondhand mirror one fine spring evening. Jamming his hands deep into his pockets, he took another step backwards to survey the current situation. "My trousers are in fashion – or at least acceptable," he muttered, smoothing the pleats in the front of his best plaid work suit; "my coat has been brushed and mended," referring to a sickly olive colored article that blended in with the color of the mirror; "my shoes are shined – " inasmuch as such patched footwear could allow – "everything is reasonable EXCEPT – MY – HAIR!"
Oh, poor Traddles could scarcely bear it. He was usually even-tempered, unruffled – the same lad who laughed when Steerforth held him out Salem House's third floor window by his ankles – but a woman changes everything. He recalled last week's visitation. Reverend Crewler had been present then – when Traddles had removed his hat and given it to Sophy, the Reverend, with a gasp of indignation immediately pronounced the disobedient shock of hair as "obscene."
"Obscene!" Traddles cried in despair. "Oh, to have obedient hair like everyone else!"
But what could he do? The appointed time was fast approaching. He took a brush to it, with the air of brushing it down neatly along his ears, but somehow – and he never DID know how – he ended up brushing it up the more!
He attempted soothing it with Macassar oil, and applied it liberally all over his head, but the only difference was that when the tufts sprung up again everything – walls, curtains, and grimy mirror – was liberally spattered with oil.
It was time for innovation. For action. He had about fifteen minutes before he had to catch the cab to his dreaded destination, and if Sophy, that bright beam, had not been there he might have given himself up for lost.
As it was, though, he needed to employ his great legal mind to fixing the problem.
Traddles arrived at the Crewler house with two minutes to spare. "Tom, dear," remarked Sophy hesitantly, biting her lip as her father looked on with a stony glare – "would you like me take your hat?"
"Oh yes, Soph – I beg your pardon, Miss Crewler. Thank you very much."
Mr. Crewler gasped once more, but this time in astonishment. "Why, Mr. Traddles, your head!"
Traddles ran a hand over his closely cropped head, sighed, and lied straight to the Reverend's face (for a fib was better than obscenity), "Lice, sir! A most terrible infestation of lice!"