Commissioned on DeviantArt
As he sat on the stone steps outside the convention center, Luke found himself running his hands through the hair yet again. THE hair, not HIS hair. Thick, blonde and glossy, it bore little resemblance to the short brown tufts that usually sat atop his cranium. It was heavy for one, cascading over his shoulders like a silky waterfall and plunging over the stylish leather jacket his Aunt had picked out for him. By length it almost stretched to the hem of his miniskirt from which his glossy stockinged legs sprouted. Were he to pull the golden locks straight, they could probably reach his panties, he thought ruefully as yet another convention goer nodded approvingly as they passed by.
In retrospect, there were probably better ways to get fired than shaving the head of his sleeping Aunt as she snored soundly in one of her own salon chairs. Desperation had ground him down and the clippers had been just sitting there begging for him to use them. Quitting had not been an option, he had his Mom to blame for that. She had demanded he work to pay his keep this summer and her sister just happened to have a job available sweeping up at her award winning hair and beauty salon. It could have even been a good way to earn a little cash if she wasn't such a slave driver.
He had felt some guilt – he wasn't a monster. It was obvious the reason Aunt Louisa was being such a hardass was the upcoming Hairapalooza Beauty Convention. She had a stall booked for the nation's premier hair and beauty event and needed to be at the top of her game. Over the last month hundreds of women had come through the salon for his Aunt to hone her skills and Luke had had to clear after every single one. His hands hurt from sweeping, his back hurt from sweeping, and his ears hurt being yelled at. Hence the grade one clipper being run right across Louisa's skull mid-snooze.
Only she hadn't fired him. She hadn't even mentioned it. Rather the word that left her furious lips had been 'lawsuit'. Apparently, her own immaculate appearance was key to her image and never more was this image more important than this weekend's convention. Surely, there was an alternative, he had begged...
Luke heard heeled boots clicking towards where he sat on the stone steps and looked up. Aunt Louisa had arrived, her head still buzzed short. He felt his scalp throb where the hair had been laced into it. Not HIS hair, HER hair. Aunt Louisa's own golden locks had been threaded into his head as she prepared her hair model for her convention stall and the day's competitions. She had dressed him next and then he had sat for hours as her partner meticulously painted his face with cosmetics – it was a beauty salon after all.
“You look like you are about to cry,” Aunt Louisa smirked cruelly. “You can for all I care. Such are the wonders of permanent makeup...”
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