Clark Gets a Haircut
The Kent family was seated at the kitchen table for breakfast.
Martha let out an exasperated sigh and put down her spoon,
" Clark, isn't it time you get a haircut?"
" Mom…." Clark whined, " My hair's fine." He said, brushing long locks out of his eyes. He looked at his father hoping for some support.
" Son, don't argue with your mother."
" FINE!" he said, admitting defeat. He couldn't argue with his loving parents, who took him in despite his alien origin. Though they never said it in so many words, they reminded him daily with their dubious glances what a burden he was.
After breakfast Clark grabbed the phone book and flipped to the beauty salon section. A number of salons were listed, but only one spoke to him. The fuchsia letters of Chic Cheveux Salon sprang at him from the page.
" For silky, stylish hair visit our salon."
" I'll have better hair than Lana!" Clark thought excitedly. He could hear the muffled gasps now, as he imagined himself walking through the halls at school. The girls would want to touch his hair, the boys would want to know his stylist's number. And best of all, Lana would cry: "oh Clark! Your hair is so much softer, and silkier than mine!" He speedily dialed the number.
" Bonjour. Chic Cheveux Salon. How may I help you?" Came a foreign voice.
"Hello. My name is Clark. Clark Kent. And I want to make an appointment with one of your stylists."
"Of course sir. Let me see…we have an opening at three this afternoon. Does that suit you?"
"Yes."
"Excellent. We'll see you then."
"Good bye." Clark said before he hung up the phone. He couldn't conceal the excited smile that spread across his face.
The day seemed to drag on forever. Despite his rapid speed, Clark felt like it took him ages to finish his chores. Then after that he had to drag his drunken father home from the field for the fifth time that week.
"Now all that has to happen is mom nearly burning down the house while baking her stupid muffins and the day will be perfect!" he said, rolling his eyes.
Finally, it was three o-clock. Walking through the door of the salon Clark's senses were hit with the over powering stench of potpourri and peroxide. A tiny French man popped out from no where. He was dressed from head to toe in black; a microscopic moustache graced his little face.
"Bonjour! Monsieur Kent I presume!" the stylist exclaimed.
Clark looked down haughtily at him, " You presume too much!" He'd heard that said once in an old movie his mom had made him watch. He thought it sounded sharp. He was after-all the customer, and the customer is always right.
The Frenchman looked confused. " Pardon Monsieur…"
"Speak AMERICAN!" Clark interrupted.
Startled, the man bowed and said, "Please except my deepest apologies. I am Paul Michelle. I will be your stylist." He stepped aside and gestured for Clark to walk on. "Come thees vay sir" Clark frowned but followed the little man to the back.
Paul Michelle sat Clark down in a high seat that reminded him of dinners when he was still a little boy, and his parents force fed him creamed corn, but looking into the mirror opposite him, those thoughts flew from his mind. The perfect lighting of the salon really brought out his rosy cheeks and pretty eyes, and staring into his pleasing reflection, Clark at once relaxed.
" Vat deed you hav in mind, sir?" Paul Michelle asked, energetically inspecting Clark's hair.
" I was thinking just a trim." He answered, without taking his eyes off the mirror.
The Frenchman looked scandalized.
" Just a trim?!" He repeated incredulously.
Clark wondered if all foreigners were so tedious and gave him an annoyed look.
" But sir, you hav ze head like a Greek god! One vith hair such as yours does not simply get a trim!" He made impatient and energetic motions with his hands. " I have a vision! A vision that demands expert highlights! A steady hand! And cascading layers!" His face was by now right in front of Clarks and his eyes were wide with enthusiasm.
Clark pushed him away quickly, as it was blocking his view of his reflection, but he could not help but be intrigued by the little man's vision.
" But how much will all that cost? I don't have much money."
" For you, it is free! For the honor it would give me." Paul Michelle bowed humbly.
This Clark could not refuse.
" It's a deal!" He said, shaking the man's hand.
At once Paul Michelle became serious.
" Thees will take much time, and much determination. Ve must start at once!" He grabbed a comb and began vigorously attacking Clark's head.
Clark whimpered, more at the sight of the assault than any actual pain.
" Pain for beauty!" Paul Michelle countered savagely.
The Frenchman's small hands worked rapidly through Clark's hair. The "snip, snip" of the scissors buzzed around his ears and every once in a while he would jerk away when the sound came too close to his sensitive ear lobes. Whenever he did this however, he would receive a slap on the shoulder. "Be still!" Paul Michelle warned.
Clark was nearly ready to tell him to shove his scissors where the sun doesn't shine when his chair was abruptly turned around so that he was facing away from the mirror.
"Hey! I want to see!" Clark cried desperately, trying to strech his feet to the floor. Finding that the chair had been raised too high, he squirmed and gave Paul Michelle a very disgruntled look.
"uh uh uh!" the frenchman warned again. "thees part of the process muzt remain a zecret!" He ducked into a back room for a few moments. When he returned he held a plastic bowl containing something very smelly in one hand.
Clark wrinkled his nose in disgust. "What is that?" he asked backing away as Paul Michelle advanced on him. "It's not going in my hair is it?"
"It most certainly iz Monsieur…"
"NO WAY!" Clark shouted trying to jump out of the chair. "It stinks!"
Pushing the young alien back into the chair the hair stylists tsk tsked, "do not vorry. Thees vill make your 'air shiney and sovt. You must trust me." He gave Clark such a stern look that Clark couldn't help but slouch back into the chair.
He whimpered as the pungent cream was applied to his hair. Without the mirror he was unable to tell how much Paul Michelle was applying, but fortunately it didn't seem to be too much.
Paul Michelle leaned over, " By the vay, you like perms do you not Monsieur Clark?"
Clark looked horrified. " No! Aaaah! My hair!" He moved, meaning to slap the bowl from the hairdresser's hands.
The Frenchman laughed. " Hohohohehe, it is juzt one of my leetle jokes. I vas only joking."
Clark did not look amused, and gave him several looks of distrust.
A few more swipes, and Clark was ushered to another chair and under an old-fashioned hair-drying device. One of the salon assistants pressed some "Hair" magazines into his hands and told him to relax while the formula did its magic.
Clark looked sceptical but did as he was told.
Some strange French music was being played, and Clark could see Paul Michelle dancing around the salon. Clark narrowed his eyes.
Since there was nothing else to do, but watch him dance, he began to thumb through the magazines.
"Ugly, ugly, hideous, ugly, repulsive…" he commented to each picture of the models. He hoped that these people weren't an idication of what he would look like when he was done.
Every once in a while Paul Michelle would pop into view and peak under the hood of the drier. "Juzt a few more minutes Monsieur Kent." He would say. Finally, when Clark was nearly done with the magazines, he was steered back to a strange looking chair and instructed to lean his head back into a sink.
Clark's tension eased somewhat when the smelly mixture was rinsed from his hair and the lovely floral scents of shampoo and conditioner wafted to his nose.
A towel wrapped around his now wet hair, Clark was directed back to the high chair.
This time the mirror was covered with a towel. Clark pouted but said nothing.
Paul Michelle drew a large round brush from one of the drawers in his station and pulled out a blow drier.
The rapid hand movements resumed and before long Clark's hair was dry. Paul Michelle wasn't done however. He pulled a steaming hot large barrelled curling iron from its holder and carefully curled a few locks of hair around Clark's face.
Stepping back the hair stylist inspected his work. Clark felt nervous under his scrutanizing gaze. Did it look right? He couldn't tell from the Frenchman's wrinkled brow.
"Ok!" he suddeny anounced. "It iz finished!" With a dramatic twist of the chair and a grand swipe at the towel concealing the mirror Clark saw his reflection for the first time in over an hour.
It took him a moment to focus, but when he did he was speechless. He knew he was good looking, but this?
He'd always been hypnotized by his reflection, but what he saw in front of him now was indescribable.
Where there had been beautiful farmer boy hair before now was model perfect tresses.
Clark shook his head, making his hair swish from side to side.
" As you can zee I hav added highlights to add ze depth to your hair." Paul Michelle told him proudly.
" I can see it!" Clark answered excitedly. " It really does bring out my eyes doesn't it?"
" You hav read my mind Monsieur Clark."
Clark gazed at the masterpiece for a few more minutes, mesmerized, then stood up.
" It has been a pleasure, mon-ser." Clark said shaking Paul Michelle's hand, more than a little proud of his French.
The Frenchman stared after him as he left the salon, a little tear glistening in the corner of his eye.
The End