When I was a boy of six or seven, my mother took me with her to one of her hair appointments. I never understood the necessity of getting something “fixed” if it wasn’t broken, and as best I could tell, her hair was still securely attached to her head.
She told the hairdresser she wanted a “Permanent.” I interpreted this as a once-and-for-all procedure and that we would never, ever have to return to this wretched den of stinky chemicals again. Three months later, I found out that “permanents” should be reclassified as “temporaries.”
If this is your first visit to the Friday Flash Fiction Salon, our chief word-stylist and truth bender is Paulette Mitchell Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To rent a roost in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
In its wake, the parade left a path of destruction that included a porta-potty containing “Blind Rutabaga” Keller and Stevie.*
“I had just torn off some tissue and was about to do the paperwork,” said Blind Rutabaga. “When BAM! Something slammed into the building. I thought a tornado had hit. Then KABOOM! The little plastic building exploded and me and Stevie are lying in the street. Then I hear music, and a band is playing ‘When the Saints Go Marchin’ In.’
“I thought we’d died and went to heaven, except for still having my pants around my ankles, of course.”
* Stevie is Mr. Keller’s seeing-eye-dog
Evidently, this is also excerpt week. The clip above was snipped from the parade scene in One Idiot Short of a Village.