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Monday, March 13, 2017



It was a rainy Tuesday night in Munich as I sat at my table looking into my beer to check my hair. It was perfect as usual. 

Despite this I was feeling down. The economy was bad that, in an effort to stop inflation and increase the nations coffers, the Weimer Republic had decreed that people were to grow their hair to shoulder length. It had also doubled the tax on haircuts. These were the two straws that broke the back of my camel and my hairdressing business. 

That morning I had my camel put down by the local veterinary surgeon and closed the shop up for good. Now I was drowning my sorrows in beer at the local Beer hall. 

What happened next will remain with me until I die. All of a sudden there was a flurry of action at the next table, beer mats and peanuts were flying everywhere and a wild haired young man had jumped up on to the tabletop. He fumbled with a revolver and fired a shot into the ceiling shouting something about revolution but all I could see was a somewhat neglected yet excellent head of hair. Shortly afterwards he was bundled out the door by some burly policemen. All the way he was shouting “Mein Herr, my hair, don’t touch my hair.” 

I knew I had witnessed something special and that my destiny was somehow tied with that man with the wild hair. My thoughts were interrupted by a tugging on my leg. I looked down to see one of the last war’s air aces Herman Goering was tugging on my trousers. “Have the police gone?” he hissed at me. When I told them they had he emerged from under the table resplendent in his air force uniform, his hair gelled back and showing no ill effects from being under my table. 

"Who was that?" I asked. Goering turned to me and said “that is the greatest living German, after myself. That was the Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler.” 

I had to know more about this man so later that week I made my way to the local prison and convinced the authorities that I should be allowed to cut Hitler’s hair. I was shown up some stairs and into a small room. There looking out the window was Hitler, his hair being caught by the wind forcing it to stand up as if it was at attention. 

Wary of me at first Hitler soon opened up to me, he asked me about my life and I told him of my problems. He swore to me then and there that when he seized power he would revoke the despotic anti hairdressing laws of the Weimer Republic. 

We talked for a while he told me of his early life of how he had always felt different from the others. He told me of his subconscious desire to kill his mother and marry his father. He told me of his life in the trenches, of the tremendous mustache he had grown on the Western Front. 

It had provided him with warmth, camouflage and sense of peace in all that chaos and carnage. Then together we wept as he told me of how the Allies had gassed it and how the best he could manage now was a small square of hair under his nose. He told me about his plans for the future of Germany and I pledged my hairdressing skills to him for the rest of my life. He accepted this offer and said my service would not go un-rewarded.

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