The Joys of Spare Time
Chapter Four: Graceful Aging
Setting: Post-ROTS, pre-ANH
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on how you feel about this crack fic) I don't own Star Wars. I do, however, own a massive store of writer's block that of course only comes around at the most inconvenient times. I also own a shortage of free time. Sad, innit?
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Obi-Wan Kenobi couldn't believe his eyes.
"I can't believe my eyes", he exclaimed, thus making a prime example of his excessively annoying habit of stating the obvious. In response to this, R2-D2 rolled it's eye-sensor-thingamajig (because, really, what are we supposed to call it anyway?) exasperatedly. In the three years he had been stuck with the exiled Jedi, he had learned that Obi-Wan had a tendency to make a fuss over nothing. He assumed this was simply more of the same.
Or so he thought.
Obi-Wan stood before the rectangular mirror on the wall of the 'fresher, his eyes (which he still couldn't believe, by the way) widened in a anguish. The subject of his anguish being a hair, falling low on his forehead and standing out garishly in a ginger lock.
Well, mostly ginger. For, you see, Obi-Wan had come to a gargantuan milestone in his life; in the life of every human-- Jedi, Darth Polyester, or otherwise.
He had gotten his first gray hair.
Obi-Wan froze.
His world exploded.
…
Well, not really, although; it did sound pretty awesome, no?
Anyway, he was pretty upset, but his world didn't explode or anything. Obi-Wan didn't consider himself that much of a wimp.
He had, however, considered himself a graceful ager; youthful, even! That is, he had…before the hair. Even as he stared unhappily at it, it seemed to glint manically in the Tatooine sunslight. It seemed unstoppable, invincible, bright as light itself—
Obi-Wan pulled the drapes shut.
The hair dulled. That's better. However, it was only a matter of time until either threat of suffocation in the stifling hut or, even more dangerous, boredom forced him to confront the hair again, so he'd have to come up with a solution quickly.
He grinned evilly into the mirror, which would have been a perfectly suitable end to a scene, except for the fact that the mirror, at that moment, decided to conveniently shatter both itself and Obi-Wan's self-confidence simultaneously (and what a horrendous noise the latter made! Like a brain imploding, or something).
Coming to terms with the fact that any attempt to act cool would result in minor catastrophe made him feel no better. I mean, he never even got the chance to make a dramatic (if corny) entrance any more!
Still, there was a problem to be solved. A gray, unfortunate problem, which really wouldn't be such a problem at all if Obi-Wan wasn't such an obsessive-compulsive prick. Really.
However, the whole neatness complex, much like the gray hair, was not about to up and leave. Which would be pretty cool, if you think about it. But that's beside the point. The point was, I believe, that Obi-Wan needed to take action if he wanted that hair out of his otherwise boring exile.
The former Jedi reached into the Force, granting him boundless peace and serenity. Doubtless, he would need it for the stunt he was about to attempt.
Resting a surprisingly steady hand on Artoo's cranial dome (bet you were wondering where he's been) for support, he raised the other to his forehead.
Or, more specifically, the hair. He held it hesitantly between his thumb and forefinger, gritted his teeth, and pulled.
All things forsaken, our dear Obi-Wan Kenobi is a fairly stoic guy (when he's not being annoyingly cynical or emo). Therefore, it must have taken a pretty big shock to make him wince and shout several expletives vulgar enough to make Artoo short-circuit.
But, hey, at least that blasted hair was gone.
Thoroughly pleased with himself, Obi-Wan flopped down on the musty sleepcouch and, to speed the plot a little bit, decided to take a nap. Which he did. Thank the Force for plot devices.
As it's previous bearer slept peacefully, a lone gray hair floated conspiratorially about the apartment. It had been removed in the prime of it's life(hair-?)span, and it was angry. This hair, which for further plot advancement we will name Glen, decided that revenge was in order. Being from a force-sensitive human, Glen also enjoyed the benefits of the Force, and thus used it to influence not only the follicle from which it came, but also it's neighbors. And so it plotted.
Obi-Wan cracked a bleary eye open as the first rays of Tatooine's suns began to filter through the flimsy shades. Slightly surprised that he had slept so late, he rose and shuffled to the 'fresher, where he found a plethora of shattered glass, amongst which Glen lay innocently.
With a nonchalant wave of his hand, the mirror was repaired. He peered lazily into it's repeating depths, not paying much attention into anything in particular, aside from how good he looked without that gray hair..
"Wait." He said aloud. Something—well, more like several somethings—glittered slyly at his scalp. The original gray hair wasn't there, but at least five others had taken it's place! Now, Obi-Wan's world wasn't gonna explode this time either, but it was getting pretty tight at the seams, for sure.
He groaned in a very un-Jedi manner, but paid it no heed, because at that moment he had become even more vain than his former Padawan, who, he remembered fondly, used to "secretly" apply mascara and lipgloss before going out in public ("You never know when those HoloNet people will show up!").
He frowned deeply before the mirror, his brow creased with thought. However, the crease did not disappear with the frown, as it usually did. With an exasperated exhalation, he leaned against the wall in favor of the looking glass. He didn't want to get too melodramatic; from extensive experience he knew the consequences (shattering mirrors, yet more gray hairs, worlds exploding, ect. ect.).
"It seems that worrying about getting old only speeds the process", Obi-Wan said dazedly, considering the newly deepened wrinkle (that happened to intersect one of his other large insecurities—that uncomfortably apparent mole on his forehead). Upon stating this, however, he noticed something odd about Artoo (aside from the fact that he was sparking like a matchstick, that is), a message from an unknown party. Curious, he pushed the TRANSMIT button.
A holoprojected image appeared before Obi-Wan of a miniscule strand of gray hair, short but standing quite proud. Assuming that hair can stand. Which it probably can't, but hey, the time it took to rebuild the Death Star didn't make sense either. So there.
Anyway, the hair suddenly extended itself to a miraculous length, curving and twisting bizarrely. It seemed to be…writing something; in Republic Basic, unless Obi-Wan was mistaken, which he wasn't (at least, this time around). It finished, and the Jedi read the words:
HAHAHA! WHO'S LAUGHING NOW? LOVE GLEN.
"You are!" Obi-Wan said brightly, and closed the transmission. He would not converse with a hair, especially his own gray one. Besides, it was the hair's fault for being there in the first place, right?
And now he had a wrinkle. Joy.
Turning to the still-smoking astromech, Obi-Wan said mildly, "Artoo? I need a search done". The droid managed a feeble squeak. Taking this as an affirmation, the Jedi continued. "Please list for me the nearby convenience stores which are stocked with GalaxyMan hair dye in…hmmm…Wampa grey. I'd best get it all over and done with".
Artoo simply offered a whoop and processed the request. Sometimes it was better not to ask.
A/N: Wow, did this one really drag, or was it just me? I'm sorry; if it doesn't quite live up to previous chapters, but I'm lucky I even managed to get on the computer. Until next time, then!
--Jax
Reviews are greatly appreciated!