Uncle Mike's Gift

By Anne C. Watkins

Sandy hadn't thought much about Uncle Mike's gift since he'd presented it to her at her birthday dinner. She'd laughed off his claims that the battered old blow dryer was magic--not to his face, of course--and stuck it on the top shelf of her closet. There it languished until weeks later when she spotted the shiny corner of the gift box peeking over the edge of the shelf and dragged it down. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember Uncle Mike's instructions.

First thing to do, he'd said, was to look through her fashion magazines, the ones full of gorgeous women with their fancy, expensive hairdos, and pick out a style she liked. Then she was to visualize how she would look with that style, and use the blow dryer. When her hair was dry it would look just like the woman's in the picture.

Feeling a bit silly, Sandy collected the magazines strewn throughout her apartment and flopped down, cross legged, in the middle of her bed to study them. Her freshly shampooed hair was wrapped in a towel and she shrugged the damp mass into a more comfortable position as she flipped through the pages.

The pouty face of Emmy Mercer stared at her from several of the covers. Sandy squinted one eye and tilted her head as she contemplated the woman's golden tresses. Women worldwide clamored to have their hair styled like hers, the beauty industry made millions by offering the style in their salons, and thousands of magazines had featured her and her famous hair on their covers.

"Ah ha," Sandy murmured. She circled the blonde's head with a felt tipped marker. "That's a perfect hairstyle if ever I saw one." She hopped off the bed and padded into her tiny black and white tiled bathroom. Giving her wet hair a couple of brisk rubs, she tossed the towel aside and picked up the blow dryer.

"Here goes nothing," she whispered as she pressed the 'on' button. The blow dryer whirred to life, vibrating slightly in her hand like a live thing. It was a pleasant sensation, and Sandy closed her eyes as the heated air stroked through her hair like gentle fingers. She formed a clear picture of the actress in her mind, then imagined herself with the same windblown style.

Her hair tugged and stretched, twisted and moved as if alive. Sandy swayed dreamily to the rhythm of the dryer's hypnotic pulses of air. Some time later, the ticking of the small enameled clock on the vanity penetrated her drowsy brain and she vaguely wondered how long she had been standing there. Abruptly, the dryer clicked itself off and Sandy jerked back to reality. She opened her eyes, glanced toward the mirror, and gasped in shock.

Her usually drab, limp hair was stylishly tousled, and curved around her face as naturally as if she had been born that way. She squealed in delight and grabbed a hand mirror so that she could inspect it from all angles. It was perfect!

Sandy bounced into the bedroom and spun around in a wild frenzy of happiness. Then she telephoned Uncle Mike and coaxed him into letting her treat him to a night on the town. Her hair simply looked too fabulous to keep all to herself.

Later, while she and Uncle Mike were enjoying their coffee, someone tapped her on the shoulder. Sandy looked up into the heavily mascara-laden eyes of the woman who had been seated at the next table. The woman carefully touched Sandy's hair, then exclaimed how lovely it was. "It's the same style as Emmy Mercer's!" she gushed. Then, turning pale, she leaned down and whispered, "Isn't it just awful what happened to her?"

Sandy creased her brows; she hadn't heard anything. She glanced at Uncle Mike, but he simply sipped his coffee and smiled. Dramatically, the woman continued, "Her hair dropped out in huge clumps!"  She paused to shudder. "They say she looks like she's got some hideous disease."

Then the woman slung her purse over her shoulder and strode away. A brief icy flash of horror shivered across the back of Sandy's neck. But before she could process her thoughts, a waitress stopped by the table to admire her hair and Sandy forgot all about the sad, bald actress.

Over the next few weeks, a disturbing pattern emerged. Whenever Sandy used Uncle Mike's gift, awful things happened to the women in the magazine pictures. They suffered unexplained hair loss or strange scalp disorders, and one unfortunate redhead was even found decapitated. After the last incident, Sandy phoned Uncle Mike and shrieked in his ear, "What is this horrible thing you gave me and what is happening to these women?"

Uncle Mike listened patiently as she blathered on. When he finally had a chance to speak, he used the soothing manner that had always comforted her in the past. "Now, dear, are you enjoying your beautiful hair?"

"You know I am!" Sandy screamed, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice as he told her not to worry.

"Nothing comes without a price, dear," he said. "Those women had their time. Now it's your turn."

Horrified, Sandy slammed down the receiver. Then she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her perfectly styled and gorgeous hair draped over her shoulders. Maybe Uncle Mike was right. It was her turn. Thoughtfully, she twirled a strand of gleaming hair between her fingers, then went to shampoo.

*****

Sandy's best friend Kami was staying over for the weekend. The two were planning to attend a posh dinner theater that night, and were in a whirlwind of trying on dresses, comparing eye shadows, and gossiping. When Sandy announced that she had to return some telephone calls, Kami took advantage of the time to grab a quick shower.

Moments later, she stepped out of the stinging spray and wrapped a thick, soft towel around herself. She pawed through her overnight bag, then tossed it aside in dismay--she'd forgotten her hair dryer. "Now what am I going to do?" she muttered.

Sandy's battered, worn blow dryer lay on the vanity. It didn't look like the sort of thing a trendy woman like Sandy would use, Kami thought, but judging by the fabulous hairstyles she had been sporting, something was working. She opened her mouth to yell for permission to use it, then paused. Sandy was still chatting in the other room and Kami decided against interrupting the conversation. She reached for the dryer. "Sandy won't mind," she whispered and switched it on.

A surge of warm vibrations caressed her hand. Kami directed the flow of air toward her dark tresses and smiled. The dryer might look like it was ready for the trash heap, but it promised miracles with its soothing hum and relaxing currents of heat.

"I wish my hair looked like Sandy's," she mused, smiling as she pictured herself with the same tousled locks. The dryer's hum increased. Kami closed her eyes and thought how funny it would be if she could surprise Sandy with an identical hair style.

The sound of Uncle Mike's gift ramped up. It was so loud now that Kami didn't hear the screams coming from the next room.

About the Author
Anne Culbreath Watkins is a full time freelance writer and photographer whose work has appeared in numerous magazines, books, and web sites. She and her banjo-player husband Allen live in Alabama. Visit her web site at: http://www.geocities.com/anne_c_watkins

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