Not the musical.
Not the song by Lady Gaga.
I’m talking about the stuff that grows on most folks’ heads. Hair says a lot about a person. Butch cuts. Coiffures. Up-dos. Bobs. Buzz cuts. Bald. French Braid. Farrah Fawcett hair. Okay, I couldn’t resist the last one. But you get the idea and I’m sure many of you had a picture pop up inside your head while reading the list.
So why am I writing about hair?
Easy. You had a picture pop up in your head when I mentioned a specific style and for good or ill, that picture had an association, a reaction for a writer to build on. I can build on that, but not easily. You see, you may not be reacting like I want so I had to rethink my wordsmithing.
Despite getting 6 inches whacked off the length of my hair a couple of months ago, my husband still manages to lay on it (accidentally on purpose), grab it, pull it or just down right try to use it like reins. And while it earns him an elbow to the gut (accidentally on purpose), it also served as inspiration for my cannibals.
Now after you mop up the Dr. Pepper that just shot out of your nose from trying to reconcile those two things, I shall explain. In a Dr. Seuss Stars upon Thars kind of way, I decided that long, luxurious Prell hair flying in the wind could be a decided disadvantage. Such a thing is easy to grab and controlling the head, controls the body.
So, my fine young cannibals don’t have hair.
Baldness is more than a birthright, it’s a necessity in their line of work. Of course, keeping with the Sneeches theme, their captives do have hair. Well, they do until dinner is served and then they’re scalped because really, who wants to floss while they eat.
I’m sure many of you are wondering what happens to their glorious manes upon being forced to accept the dinner invitation? Well, staring Monday I’ll be posting a chapter a week of the next book in the Redaction series until it goes live sometime in April. Early April. Crossing fingers.