Last night I was attacked by Justin Bieber’s hair. Here’s how it all went down:
I was watching TV with the wife. She likes to watch these shows about celebrities. You know the ones. The Osmond family is highlighted at what seems a frequency incommensurate with their fame. Anyway, there was this kid on the show. I’d never seen him before. “Who’s that?” I asked.
“Justin Bieber,” the wife said. She’s knowledgeable about such things.
She told me he’s this kid who sings some song. All the girls love him, apparently.
“What’s up with his hair?”
It’s his trademark, she said, what he’s known for. Like Michael Jackson’s glove or Ellen Degeneres’s… humor. The girls love it, I guess.
“It looks ridiculous.” And it did. It was pretty in a way-- nice hair, I mean, but odd. It was sort of brushed forward like he’d been walking with a strong wind at his back and it got whipped around his face and he’d just left it there.
“The girls love it.”
I pushawed. I don’t understand “the girls.” Never did.
An hour or so later I was outside pushing the wheeled trash receptacle down to the curb. It was dark out. I like to wait until dark because I don’t want my neighbors to know I make trash. I turned around to head back to the house when someone hissed, “Hey, buddy.”
Except it was not a someone. It was an it. Specifically, it was Justin Bieber’s hair. It was floating, looking like a really nice toupee, right there above my driveway.
“What are you doing here?” I asked it. It seemed like a good question at the time.
“I heard what you said about me,” said Justin Bieber’s hair.
“I have certain…abilities.”
“Whatever. I’m heading back in. I don’t spend my nights talking with disembodied hairdos.”
That’s when Justin Bieber’s hair attacked me. It leaped at my face and tried to gouge out my eyeballs, but mostly it just tickled. It was really soft and I couldn’t help noticing that it smelled good too, like vanilla and lavender. “You will respect me!” Justin Bieber’s hair yelled in a girlish voice.
I was about to grab for the hair to rip it from my face, but just then a few strands found their way into my mouth and the taste! Oh, the taste! “Certain abilities” indeed! I would compare it, were there anything on this Earth to compare it to!
Okay, I’ll try. How’s this: It tasted like a rainbow would taste if you had giant hands and could squeeze the rainbow and extract rainbow juice. Yes, just like that! It tasted like rainbow juice.
Needless to say, I abandoned my attempt to free myself from its intoxicating clutches and instead slurped. I slurped Justin Bieber’s hair. And it tasted divine. When I was done, the hair pulled itself from my face. “So,” it said, all haughty.
“So,” I answered.
The hair stared at me.
“It would seem I owe you an apology,” I told it.
“It would seem.”
“I am sorry. I…didn’t understand.”
“Not many do.” And then Justin Bieber’s hair departed, like a rainbow-flavored, vanilla and lavender-scented zephyr, back to Atlanta. Back to Justin’s head. Back to its improbable, glorious existence.