CHAPTER 3

When they got home, Annalise dragged her bags into her room. She disinterred the Body Shop bag and marched into the kitchenette with it, calling for the Fellowship to come into the small room.

'What are these potions?' Asked Boromir, puzzled. He picked up a bottle of shampoo.

'These,' replied Annalise, 'are to clean your g- your hair.' She was tempted to add "greasy," but she decide it would be a bad idea to anger the Man with the big sword. 'No one outside of Middle Earth lets their hair look like yours. I mean, you have a-' Again, she stopped, wondering if there was a word for "mullet." 'Anyway, I'm washing your hair.' She eyed Gimli critically. 'And possibly giving you a trim as well.'

Gimli practically growled. 'If you think that you're about to cut my beard. . . .' He let the threat hang.

'No, I think the beard can stay- I'm certainly in no position to make you part with it. But will you at least let me trim it, so it looks better-?'

Gimli considered. 'All right,' he grumbled finally. 'But only because I have no wish to draw unfriendly eyes.'

"No comment," she muttered.

Annalise had the hobbits wash their hair first, making sure they used the shampoo and not her shaving cream. She also trusted Aragorn, Legolas, and Gandalf to be able to take care of themselves- although she was careful to explain conditioning to the wizard and the ranger. She thought the elf might know more about hair care than she did. Then she turned to Gimli and Boromir.

'Boromir,' she ordered. 'You first.'

The warrior of Gondor stepped reluctantly forward. He towered over this girl, physically, but she could be intimidating if she wanted to be. She reached up and ran a hand through his hair, tsking.

"Hmm. . . " She said to herself. "I'll need the extra-strength shampoo, two cleanings. . . Definitely conditioner. . . . A-a-and. . ." She debated attempting to trim Boromir's split ends and decided it wasn't worth it. She motioned him over to the sink, and was about to turn on the shower-head faucet. Then it occurred to her that the water might ruin his clothes (even more than they already were ruined).

'You might want to take off your shirt, unless you don't mind getting it wet.' Boromir shrugged and took off the velvet shirt.

It hadn't occurred to Ann until that moment that she would have a muscle-bound man standing shirtless in her kitchenette. She stuttered.

'Umm. . . . Here, sit down.' She pulled a chair up to the sink and leaned him back, draping a towel over him to keep him as dry (and covered) as possible. After fifteen minutes, she thought the job was done, and handed him a towel to dry his hair off with. Then she called Gimli in.

She repeated the procedure, with the slight omission of the shirt removal- she decided she had been shocked enough by the sight of the Man, no need to do her nervous system more damage with the Dwarf. When she was done, she trimmed his hair a few inches, with some difficulty. Gimli was far from happy with his new hairstyle, but he endured.

As she finished, Frodo came down the hallway with a large towel wrapped around his waist. 'Er. . . .'

Ann slapped her forehead. 'Just a moment, I'll go get your new clothes. Gimli, I'm done.'

As she ran down the hallway to her room, Gimli stood and brushed himself off. He glanced at Frodo, who was grinning at the sight of Gimli's somewhat shortened beard. He snorted, in Rhovannion, 'Women!'

Annalise came rushing back down the hallway. 'Frodo, can you call the rest into the kitchen, so I can hand out clothes? There should be plenty of towels for the people who took baths.' She paused, remembering how traumatized she was by Boromir. 'Er, who took baths?'

'Let's see, just the hobbits, I think. Gandalf and Aragorn just washed their hair in the well.'

'Well? Oh, the sink. All right, what about Legolas?'

'I think he bathed, too.'

'Umm, how about you take him his clothes. Send the others in, though.'

Frodo nodded, though puzzled, while Gimli chuckled knowingly.

As Frodo trotted down the hall, Ann handed Gimli his clothes and considered. Was she missing something? Ah, yes- Legolas and Gandalf's hair. "Why did everyone back then have long hair?" She mused, finger combing her own lengthy, blue-highlighted tresses. "Awfully inconvenient if they're gonna come to this century." She sat up, her brain finally registering the facts. "Wait- how did they come to this century? Wha- thmm. . . ." She sank into a reverie, tracing the pattern on the counter tiles.

'Miss Ann?' She looked down as a small hand tugged at her sleeve.

'Miss Ann, we're all ready,' said Sam. 'Can you hurry? It's a bit chilly.'

She laughed. 'It is Alaska. All right, here.'

She began handing them clothes, rummaging through the bags. She began humming, then singing. "She's a rich girl, she don't try to hide it, diamonds on the soles of her shoes. . . He's a poor boy . . ."

'What are you singing?'

Annalise looked up from the bag she was rummaging through. Legolas was standing over her, curious.

She smiled and continued singing in Westron. '. . .He's a poor boy, empty as a pocket, empty as a pocket with nothing to lose.'

'It- well, the song is like nothing in my time. Does it tell a story?'

'Not exactly. The songs that people write in the last century or so are more- well, love ballads, I suppose. They tell about how much they love a person, or how they miss that person, now that he or she is gone. But some songs are more like stories. This one is about a man and a woman meeting and falling in love - I mean, not exactly, but that's close. You know what? You Nine might like American Pie.'

'American Pie. . .' Murmured Legolas, tasting the words. 'What is that about?'

'It's more symbolic, really. It tells the story of a generation.' She began singing from the beginning, in English. Soon Legolas was joining in on the chorus, though he didn't quite understand what he was saying.

As Annalise neared the end, she realized that Legolas wasn't the only person joining in on the chorus. Aragorn, Frodo, and Sam were singing along, as well. As they finished, grinning, she laughed. 'I think you'll fit in pretty well.'

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