Disclaimer: See chapter 1
Summary:  Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?
AN: 1) Wow, thanks for all the suggestions. Don't worry, I won't mention any names when I steal . . . er . . . use them. Thanks to Jojo for the gas station idea. 2) Standard warning regarding bad taste applies.

This Makes No Sense Whatsoever
Chapter 3: Cut!

Well, it had finally gone down, in fact, you had to look hard to see it at all. Logan breathed a sigh of relief. Bling had insisted he put ice on it, and that had seemed to do the trick. He wheeled up to the mirror and squinted just to make sure—no, there was no way Max could possibly notice it, no matter how close they got.

That bump on his head had been a doozey though. Not since he'd head butted Margo in the stomach back in--'98 it must have been—had he'd had one like it. That had been an accident too. It had been during the annual Cale family 'running of the bulls' party-- his grandmother had always insisted on commemorating Hemingway's birthday--and Margo should have known better than to wear red. Although, surprisingly, she hadn't really been that upset. In fact, she had bragged about her "abs of steel" for weeks after--for almost as long as it had taken his head to resume its normal shape. In hindsight, he suspected her reinforced panties had been reinforced with something more substantial than lycra. Ah . . . old memories.

He brushed his fingers through his hair to make sure any trace of the protrusion was covered up. He didn't want anything to remind Max of last week's debacle at Save-a-Bunch. He frowned disapprovingly; if his hair got much higher, his head was going to start falling over. Max was right—well, wasn't she always—he really did need a haircut, especially now that supplies of hair gel were becoming ridiculously expensive.

He grimaced, recalling news coverage of the massive explosion at the only hair gel factory in the northwestern United States. An accident the news reports had said, but he suspected it was the work of ultra right wing conservatives. Think about it, when was the last time there'd been a prominent Republican with spikes? It had been really amazing though; people, cars, buildings, whole neighborhoods slimed. In locations were the ultra hold formula had hit, it had taken weeks to unstick everything. He rubbed his eyes, remembering one particularly harrowing scene; he hoped they had finally been able to unglue that elderly gentleman from the toilet seat.

Anyway, without gel, his hair would loose its ability to defy gravity and soon he would look like Shep the sheepdog—unless, of course, he jammed a wet finger into an electrical socket every few minutes, and that seemed a little extreme. In the past, his cleaning lady had lopped off his locks when they reached a height of eleven centimeters or so, but she was gone, along with his millions. So here he sat, waiting for Max to accompany him to the cut-price salon she had discovered.

She had Original Cindy cut her hair, and had suggested he do the same--but he felt somewhat uncomfortable with that idea. True, he'd always admired strong women, but OC was . . . well, kinda scary. Yes, she'd said he was "aiight" and, from the expression on her face at the time, he had deduced that was a good thing (and how did one spell that exactly?), but she had an air of danger about her nonetheless. Not that Max didn't, but she at least seemed to have a certain attachment to him that would probably restrain her from any slips with sharp instruments in the vicinity of his head. Speaking of slips—tonight there would be none. This evening was going to turn out just fine, even if it killed him.

A thud on the roof roused him from his reverie. Either Max had arrived, or his upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Moreno, was tap dancing again. Funny, this was the penthouse apartment--he hoped the old lady wasn't destitute and living in a tent on the roof. In all the years he'd lived here he'd never quite figured out the layout of this building, and the apartment itself wasn't much better. He knew there was a guest bedroom around here somewhere, but he'd seemed to have mislaid it.

He heard the skylight opening and grinned at his reflection in the mirror—Max. One final check--apart from the hair, he looked OK. He'd even worn the red slinky spandex shirt she seemed to like. True, it did show off his well-toned muscles, but having to have it surgically applied and removed was such a pain.

Expertly, he wheeled out of the bedroom and into the hallway. There she was, molded into a sky-blue, long-sleeved, v-neck T and dark blue pants, looking extremely—blue. Yes, this evening he had a strategy—he would focus his thoughts on primary colors only—kind of like those mind control techniques Max had told him about. (Not for the first time, he appreciated Lesson 1: pay attention when Max speaks.) Errant thoughts had caused the trouble on his previous outings with her; tonight there would be none, and he would reestablish himself in her good books.

"So, what's the name of this hairdressing place?"

"Snips." He flinched involuntarily. All the more reason to be on his best behavior—women armed with scissors.

He followed as she led the way into the elevator. He loved riding with Max. Just the two of them in that tiny space, the smell of her scent, the glow of the recessed lighting in her hair . . .. This was not good . . . focus on the mission. "I hear Sherwin Williams is having a special on interior paint this week." OK, she looked confused now, but that had certainly been a conversation stopper and had given him time to regroup. His brilliant strategy was working. "Of course, it's on primary colors only." She was backing away from him—he was a genius.

***

Logan was still feeling pleased with himself as they pulled into the parking lot in front of Snips. Even that little detour they'd had to make to get gas had gone exceptionally well he thought, especially given the fact that he had never had to pump his own gas before, but now full service was just another luxury he couldn't afford. Max had definitely been checking out his upper body muscles as he'd made his transfers. At first, he'd thought it was his imagination, but her eyes were still glued to his biceps as he'd pumped the gas. He'd even flexed a couple of times as he was returning the nozzle to its holder just to be sure, and her eyes had definitely grown wider. Of course, that could have been because of the rapid approach of the 300-pound gentleman he had just sprayed with gasoline. But that had given him all the more incentive to do a stunningly fast and muscle stretching transfer back into the drivers seat. It was almost embarrassing, but he could have sworn she was sighing with pleasure as they'd screeched out of there.

This evening was turning out just fine, everything was under control and the slight apprehension he had previously felt at setting wheel in a hairdressing salon for the first time was rapidly evaporating. In the Cale house there had always been a manservant or two who was adept with a scissors and his faithful cleaning lady had taken up where they'd left off. Except she hadn't been so faithful had she? One bounced paycheck and she had bounced right out of there. His evil side hoped she had found employment with a Leona Helmsley or a Martha Stewart or, even worse, Margo—yes, she didn't realize how easy she'd had it all these years. And she really had had no expertise in doing hair. If he remembered correctly, her only job experience that had been in any way relevant had been plucking chickens. He was glad she was gone—good riddance to her.

Max was holding the door open for him, one hand resting on a perfectly curved hip, looking extremely . . .blue. She returned his grin as he wheeled passed her. Man . . . look at this place. Row upon row of mirrors, neatly arranged workstations, gorgeous shapely females . . . focus . . . mind control . . . and a dirty green décor. Maybe he should tell them about that sale at Sherwin Williams.

An extremely buxom young lady was making her way toward them. She certainly was very . . . red. Max was watching him closely, tastefully blue, . . . she really was perfect.

Thirty minutes, and a couple of pounds of hair, later he was almost done. He relaxed—nothing had gone wrong. It had been a perfect evening—well apart from being almost smothered to death by the amply endowed Miss Elmo in that reclining seat at the wash- basin.  And she had kept bumping his cranial injury. Max would never do such a thing—but he could dream, couldn't he? . . . focus . . . mind control . . . gosh look at that comb over there, very yellow.

Max, on the other hand, had seemed more and more agitated as the evening progressed. She was leaning up against the workstation beside him, glaring. Dare he hope? Was she perhaps a bit jealous of his assigned beautician's ministrations? Maybe he should casually lean back a little and note her reaction. Yes, he could be risking permanent damage to his ears (was Max the only young female who wore a brassiere anymore), but he was prepared to make sacrifices in the name of truth, wasn't he? Wait a minute . . . where had they gone?

He'd just have to sit here and wait. Maybe he could pass the time educating Max on Gloria Steinem and the feminist movement of the 1960s. It could be very liberating for both of them, and for himself also. Oh God, he was loosing focus . . . gray, the floor tiles were gray . . . uh oh . . .that wasn't a primary color. Orange, the seats were orange . . . no, no . . . that was a secondary color. OK, his hair looked fine—time to get the hell out of there.

He whirled his chair around and froze—his beautician had returned and she was packing. Man . . . look at that thing, it made a 44 magnum look like a child's toy pistol. He always known it—women could read the male mind . . . it explained everything. Finally, he understood the fundamental mystery of the universe and he was going to die before he could enlighten the chromologically challenged half of mankind. Execution for thinking lecherous thoughts—he was surprise he had lived this long.

Now she was waving it around, she could hit Max by mistake. "DUCK!"

He'd said duck, not freeze, hadn't he? What was wrong? Where were Max's lightening reflexes? He looked around desperately for help. NO! They were all armed, and aiming at the clientele's heads. Uh oh--suddenly, he suspected he had made a terrible error—hadn't Valerie used one of those things before she'd gotten that afro.    

Max was not looking pleased. Think, think . . . regroup. He sat back, folded his arms, and cocked an eyebrow, looking nonchalantly Sean Conneryish. "Duck, I'm cooking duck for dinner."

"He's been under a lot of stress lately." Max was giving the woman in red a huge tip and wheeling him out the door. No wait . . . maybe they had some hair gel for sale and he would never have to get a haircut again, ever. But he felt too drained to fight her now.

"Max, let's stroll through the city park on the way home." She looked pleased at his sudden calmness. Of course, that might change when they started chasing the ducks. He rubbed his head in confusion . . . ouch, that bump was still tender.

"Does that still hurt?

"Just a tit . . . I mean just a bit . . .."  No . . . no . . . where could he get a 44 magnum at this hour of the night . . . on second thoughts he needed an elephant gun . . . obliteration . . .it was the only solution to his torment . . . complete annihilation . . .

Again, thanks for all your suggestions. I've filed them away on my hard drive where, I'm afraid, they might be germinating . . .