The Town That Smells Like Coconut Shampoo

Bloomberg was not like other towns.

Every single street had a salon on it. Every single person in Bloomberg had perfect hair. The mayor had perfect hair. The pigeons had perfect hair — somehow. It was that kind of town.

And then there was Jackie.

Jackie stomped down Clover Street with her long black hair swinging behind her and her bangs hanging so far into her eyes she had to tilt her head sideways just to see the kerb. Her red-and-black striped skull shirt was already attracting stares.

"Oi," she muttered, blowing her bangs out of her face. They fell right back.

Walking beside her was Ollie, whose brown hair was so long it had begun to develop its own opinions about which direction to go. Behind them, Remi, Mike, Jacob, and Carson argued loudly about absolutely nothing.

It was, by every measure, a perfectly normal Tuesday in Bloomberg.

Except for the sign hanging in the salon window.

Jackie stopped walking.

The Sign That Started Everything

The sign was enormous.

It filled the entire salon window, bright red letters on white paper, printed so big you could read it from across the street:

**BLOOMBERG HAIR EMERGENCY — ALL RESIDENTS WITH HAIR PAST THEIR SHOULDERS MUST REPORT TO CLOVER STREET SALON BY SATURDAY OR FACE A $50 FINE.**

Below it, in slightly smaller letters: *By order of Mayor Dibbs. No exceptions. Hairdressers have been assigned.*

Jackie's jaw dropped. The gap from her missing tooth made it look extra dramatic.

"That's us," Remi said flatly.

"That's absolutely us," said Carson.

Ollie made a sound like a kettle boiling. His hair, which honestly did look a bit like a brown, frizzy cloud had swallowed his entire head, blew slightly in the breeze.

"Fifty dollars," Mike said, very quietly.

"Clippers," Jacob whispered back, even more quietly. He said the word like it was a disease.

The salon door swung open.

A man stepped out. He was tall, wearing a sharp green apron, and he had the most perfect fade haircut anyone had ever seen. He was holding a clipboard.

He looked at them.

He smiled slowly.

"Well," he said, clicking his pen, "you six must be the ones Benny told me about."