Bad Hair Day

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Little Timmy was just about to leave for school. He had his backpack, his Batman lunchbox, and his lucky socks. Little Timmy was just walking out the door when his mother called to him, “Little Timmy, did you comb your hair today?”

Little Timmy reached up and patted his hair about. “No, it’s fine as it is,” he replied, and headed out the door.

Halfway there, he heard a voice. “Hey! Why am I all messy and unruly?”

“Who said that?” Little Timmy cried. He looked around and saw nobody on the entire block.

“It’s me, your hair! Why aren’t I combed? That’s making me rather irritated!”

Little Timmy felt his hair and answered, “I’m sorry I made you irritated, but you look just fine when you’re messy and unruly.”

Little Timmy’s hair was not satisfied by this response. “But I hate being messy and unruly! I’m going to eat your head off unless you comb me this instant!”

“Oh please don’t be angry!” Little Timmy protested. “I didn’t bring a comb with me, and I’d rather not be late for school!”

But it was too late. Little Timmy’s messy and unruly hair started eating away at his scalp. He let out a cry of pain, dropped his Batman lunchbox, and ran around in circles screaming.

“Please stop, hair! Stop eating my scalp!” His hair only answered by eating faster.

So Little Timmy ran to the barbershop. He ran through the door and cried, “Help! Help! I need a haircut fast!”

The barber said, “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.” So he sat Little Timmy down on a chair and got out his scissors.

“No! I won’t let you kill me!” the hair yelled, and it gobbled up the scissors in one bite.

“Oh this won’t do,” the barber said. “That was my only pair of scissors left!”

“Really?” Little Timmy cried. “You’re sure you don’t have anything else?”

“Well,” the barber answered, “I do have these!” He held up a large, rusty pair of pliers as big as Little Timmy’s arm.

“Oh dear,” he said, and left the barbershop.

Now his head was really starting to hurt, so Little Timmy ran to the butcher’s store. He ran through the door and cried, “Help! Help! I need a haircut fast!”

The butcher said, “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.” So he sat Little Timmy down on a stack of decapitated chickens and got out his meat cleaver.

“No! I won’t let you kill me either!” the hair yelled, and it gobbled up the meat cleaver in one bite.

“Oh this won’t do,” the butcher said. “That was my only sharp meat cleaver left!”

“Really?” Little Timmy cried. “You’re sure you don’t have anything else?”

“Well,” the butcher answered, “I do have this!” He held up a giant chainsaw that was as big as Little Timmy’s entire body.

“Oh dear,” he said, and left the butcher’s store.

By now he was sure that his brain was being nibbled at, so Little Timmy ran to the old witch on the hill. He ran through the door and cried, “Help! Help! I need a haircut fast!”

The old witch said, “My time is but a piece of wax falling on a termite whom is choking upon the splinters.”

“That’s kind of creepy,” Little Timmy said. “But can you cut my hair?”

The witch said, “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.” So she sat Little Timmy in a large cauldron full of bones and got out her wand.

“No! You’re not going to kill me either!” the hair yelled, and it gobbled up the wand in one bite.

“Oh this won’t do,” the witch said. “New wands may only be obtained on the full moon while wearing a polka-dot sweater after eating salmon!”

“Really?” Little Timmy cried, a little confused. “You’re sure you don’t have anything else?”

“Well,” the witch said, “I could just use acid to melt your entire head, including the hair.” She held up a bottle of bubbling acid.

“Oh dear,” he said, and left the old witch on the hill.

Now he was quite certain that his cerebellum was being swallowed, which he thought was pretty far down his head, so Little Timmy ran to the master swordsman’s house. He ran through the door and cried, “Help! Help! I need a haircut fast!”

The master swordsman said, “Ah! Thou hath a mighty wounded scalp, I dare say! I shall see what I can do.” So he sat Little Timmy upon the dead body of a fallen foe and got out his finest blade.

“No! You’d better not kill me either!” the hair yelled, and it gobbled up the sword in one bite.

“Ah, this hath not gone well,” the master swordsman said. “My finest blade hath been swallowed. I shall be banished by the king for losing my sword.”

“Really?” Little Timmy cried. “You’re sure you don’t have anything else?

“Ah,” the master swordsman said. “Thou hath been spared, for I hath borrowed this fine, fine chainsaw from the butcher not a moment ago.” He held up a familiar chainsaw that was as big as Little Timmy’s entire body.

“Oh dear,” he said, and left the master swordsman’s house.

Now he wasn’t sure if he even had a nose the hair had eaten so much of his head, so Little Timmy ran all the way back home. He ran through the door and cried, “Help! Help! I need a haircut fast!”

His mother answered, “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.” So she sat Little Timmy at the kitchen table and got out her comb.

“Ah, yes! A comb at last!” the hair cheered, and Little Timmy’s mother carefully combed his hair. “I feel so much less messy and unruly now!” the hair said, and it spit out the rest of Little Timmy’s head right back into place.

“Wow, thanks mom!” he said happily, making sure that all of his various facial features were in the right place.

“That’s why you always should comb your hair, Little Timmy,” his mother said, and she waved goodbye as he left for school.

 

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