Authors: Danny Wallace
I found my way to a hairdresser’s on Great Portland Street, but as I was about to enter, I received a most annoying text message.
YOU OWE ME FIFTY QUID.
It was from Wag. I hadn’t really wanted to call him before now—the whole “him thinking I have a thing for him” thing made that a little uncomfortable as a prospect. And anyway, you’re supposed to wait two days before calling someone after a first date.
But, oh well. I suppose I had to give him his fifty quid—the fifty quid I’d made him spend on one warm beer in a Soho clip joint. You’d think he’d have let me off, what with the ticket to “We Will Rock You” and the bhuna, but I guess that’s the risk you take when you’re a Yeser. I texted him back, and we arranged to meet briefly, later on in the afternoon.
* * *
“So …,” said Scott, the kiwi hairdresser. “The question I’m asking myself is, what are we going to do for you today?”
“Same basic shape,” I said, “except I would like you to cut it so that it is a little shorter.”
“Understood,” said Scott, who I’m suddenly worried you will think is not simply a hairdresser from New Zealand (a kiwi
hairdresser)
, but instead a hairdresser who cuts the hair off kiwis (a
kiwi
hairdresser). “I can do that for you very easily indeed.”
But then Scott did something rather odd. He put both hands on my shoulders and leant down to my level. We made eye contact in the mirror.
“Or …,” he said, “do you want to try something
new?”
Scott certainly seemed to be putting his back into this haircut. I’d had to remove my glasses—something I was only too pleased to do—while he did something fancy with a razor down the sides of my head, but it gave me a few precious and welcome moments of contemplation. That’s the good thing about being near-sighted. When someone takes your glasses off, all you can do is think—not much good in a fight, admittedly, but
perfect
for the hairdressers. And so that’s what I did. I thought about the new cast of characters who’d come into my life of late, some of whom I knew, and some of whom I … well … didn’t.
The thing was, if Wag wasn’t the Challenger, then who was? Who was sending me odd things and taunting me? What was their objective? To tease me? To scare me? Had they really expected me to go to Stonehenge? Did they know I’d been? Was I too hasty in ruling Ian out of the equation? And where did the man on the bus fit into all of this? I suppose if the man on the bus was, in fact, Maitreya, as Brian and Pete and the Starburst Group had suggested, maybe he was the Challenger? Maybe I was merely a pawn in a very odd game of chess. Hey, “yes” rhymes with “chess.” Maybe that was a clue. But who knew about my very important quest? Who had I …
“Okay, we’re all done!”
Scott stood back from me, and I reached for my glasses.
“Great,” I said, putting them on. And then I didn’t really say much at all.
I just looked.
I now had very, very short hair at the sides. The top had a kind of mohawk effect, but it was much more spiky than it had ever been before, and there seemed
to be something still tickling my neck…. But after a moment or two I liked it. Kind of. I
kind of
liked it.
“I’ll just show you the back,” he said, holding up a mirror, but then whipping it away again before I could really see what was going on round there.
“Er … could I just see the back again?”
“Sure,” said Scott, and he held the mirror up longer this time.
And I nearly swallowed my tongue.
Scott had given me … No, he couldn’t have …
Could he?
I thought that …
Christ.
Scott had given me … a
mullet
.
I was now a man with a mullet, wearing the glasses of a boy.
I waited in the Yorkshire Grey for Wag. I’d picked up my new specs, thank heavens, and I’d tried to make my new haircut a little less manic by going to the toilets and smearing water all over my head. It just made the wax Scott had put in there go all runny, and my hair had now set in a much more unfortunate style than before. I winced. Somehow I had found the one hairdresser in all of Great Britain who shared Wag’s conviction that the mullet was a somehow acceptable haircut.
Oh god!
Wag!
Moments later he walked in and just stared at me.
“What the hell’s happened to you?”
“I got … a haircut.”
“Let me see,” he said, and reluctantly I let him.
“What do you think?” I said.
There was a slightly awkward pause.
“So you decided to get a mullet.”
I nodded, a bit self-conscious.
“It appears that way,” I said.
“Right,” said Wag. “Only … well … I’ve got a mullet.”
Bollocks. He’d noticed. He’d noticed that we’d both got mullets.
“Yes …,” I said. “I suppose so …”
“So, now we’ve
both
got one. We are two men, both with mullets.”
I smiled awkwardly. Maybe that would trick him into thinking this was a good thing. I don’t know if you’ve ever turned up at a party, wearing the same
top as someone else. It’s much the same when it appears you have specifically attempted to base yourself on someone else’s entire look.
“Well … mine’s not really a mullet,” I tried. “I mean yours … Yes, that is a mullet. And a fine one. But mine isn’t a mullet. Not really.”
“Well, what is it? It looks the same as mine.”
“It really isn’t the same as yours. Believe me. It’s mulletesque, certainly, but it’s really only a very
small
mullet. If anything, it’s a
mullette.”
There was a long and cavernous pause.
I cleared my throat.
Somewhere a floorboard creaked.
I could see deep concern in Wag’s eyes. I thought about what Ian had said. I thought about how this must look to a man who already suspected I had a crush on him.
“It doesn’t mean I want to have babies with you,” I said.
Another substantial pause.
“I have to go now,” he said.
I walked into my flat that night and immediately found my glasses. They were on the floor next to the sofa.
Minutes later Ian sent me a text message.
WAG JUST PHONED. HEARD ABOUT YOUR NEW IMAGE. LOOK WHO’S STALKING!
Oh God.
Still. Wag wouldn’t have to worry about me for a while. I was off to Scotland the next morning, after all, and looking forward to it. My train was booked, my socks were packed, and I couldn’t wait to get up there and begin my important BBC duties.
But I was feeling chirpy for another reason, too. I’d returned home that evening to find a small white box outside my door. A small white box that had made its way all the way from Tucson, Arizona, to my flat in London’s glamourous East End. I’d ripped it open and found a world of wonder within: a video, a CD, some incense, a small laminated clip-on badge, and a book of handy speeches.
At last … I was a
minister!
The reverand Amy E. Long from the Universal Life Church had sent me everything I needed to set up a church of my own, including a small sign, which
I could stick on my car, that read:
THE DRIVER OF THIS CAR IS A LICENSED MINISTER ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS!
This was great! Now I could break the law, whenever the urge took me! Thank you, God!
I even had my own certificates of marriage, commitment, and baby naming to hand out to people after my special ceremonies! I could
name babies!
I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited. But what would I name them? Was that my decision, or the parents’? Could I just walk about, naming them as I saw fit? That would be brilliant.
“I name thee Mister Chubby!”
“But his name’s Tim!”
“Not anymore it’s not. And that other one next to him—let him forever be known as Chao Lee, Child of the Stars …”
Parking wherever I wanted, naming whoever I chose … I would be a maverick minister on the edge.
I wanted to know more about the Universal Life Church, though, and so sauntered over to my computer and fired it up.
Ten minutes later, and I’d decided I was going to buy a cassock. I was feeling deeply spiritual. But this was to stop the very second I checked my e-mail.
I was pleased to see that I had one from Lizzie. But I didn’t understand it.
To : Danny
From: Lizzie
Subject: RE: soho ho, ho, ho
Danny,
Okay! I believe you! So get me a ticket, then!
xo,
L
Eh?
What was that supposed to mean? She believes me about what? She’d clearly sent an e-mail to the wrong Danny…. I hadn’t asked her to believe
anything…
.
I nearly deleted it, but then stopped in my tracks. I studied the subject line.
Soho ho, ho, ho?
And it had
RE:
before it. It was a
reply
. She couldn’t have hit Reply and mailed the wrong Danny….
But what was she replying to?
When was the last time I’d e-mailed Lizzie? And about what?
Oh, God, what had I done? My cheeks started to burn.
I knew that feeling, and I hated it—the feeling that creeps up on you, side-by-side with a hangover, the feeling that you may have started sending e-mails at the worst possible time to be sending e-mails … when you were drunk. E-mails that, at nine o’clock on a Monday morning, may have lost some of their Saturday-night vibe. E-mails that were hilarious or fascinating when they left your flat at four in the morning, but which had somehow lost their appeal or relevance the second they flew down the wires. What had I written? What had I said? Had I poured my heart out? Had I proclaimed undying love? Had I bored her to tears?
No. No, I couldn’t have.
I found my Sent Mail folder.
Oh, shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I
had
. I
had
sent her an e-mail. I had sent her an e-mail at 4:26 that morning…. I’d mailed her after stumbling in from that Soho clip joint after a night of careless and determined Yeses …
I clicked my e-mail open and held my breath, readying myself for the worst. And I instantly saw that it was pretty bloody bad.
To: Lizzie
From: Danny
Subject: Soho ho, ho, ho
Lizziiiiiiie!
How is australia is austrlia good? Sems like it woul dbe good in australian. Have you met any australians yet hahahaha.
I am havin a great time here in london englan an have just had a night out with wag remember wag he is ok. we ended up in a place, it was a gentleman parlour in case anyone ask you and a moroccan man said get out you tossbag.s
hey listen i an going to the edinburgh festival to work for a bit you would love it their, it is big and funny and loadsa people, why don’t you come, it’ll be brilliant if you come there you could get a train like me. do you have trains in australia.
okay maybe see you in edinburgh its good there let me know you are really cool an pretty an i miss you
danyy
Christ. No wonder I didn’t understand the e-mail from Lizzie. I didn’t bloody understand the e-mail from
me
.
My first reaction was embarrassment. Embarrassment at my drunken, pointless ramblings. My second was one of sickly realisation….
Because slowly, slowly I was piecing it together….
I had said Lizzie should come to Edinburgh.
And Lizzie had said … yes.
Yes, even though she was in Australia.
But not just yes.
She’d said,
“Okay! I believe you! So get me a ticket, then!”
Which was, in effect, a suggestion.
A jokey one, yes, and a silly one, true—but
a suggestion nevertheless
.
Let’s face it—there was no way in the world that Lizzie could think I was serious. I was a drunk man, suggesting she take a train—a
train!—
from Australia, on the basis that Edinburgh was “good” because it was “big and funny and loadsa people.”
She was humouring me. In a sweet and gentle way. But still only humouring me.
I paced the flat.
What was I going to do about this?
Okay, okay. Let’s say I did it; let’s say I got her a ticket. She would never in a million years get on the plane. Why would she? She hardly knew me. She’d almost known me, once, but that was months ago and miles away. She was on a different continent now. She had a different life now. And anyway, with Wag and Hanne, I already had
two
people who thought I was obsessed with them. I wasn’t trying to make up the set.
What should I do?
What if I got her a ticket and on some mad whim she
did
come? What then? Why spoil a beautiful friendship? Sure, something could have happened, once, but not now. And if she turned up, and we didn’t get on anymore, well, what then?
It was stupid. It was stupid. It was so bloody stupid.
But it was a
suggestion
.
No. Sod that. A ticket from
Australia
, for God’s sake!
And
she’d probably want a return one! I couldn’t afford that. No way. They were
… how
much were they?
I scrambled onto the internet and did a search.
Five hundred and forty-five pounds! Minimum!
I can’t go around spending a minimum of five hundred and forty-five pounds on girls Fm not even going out with! I can’t even go around spending a minimum of five hundred and forty-five pounds on girls I
am
going out with!
Somewhere, sometime, I would have to draw a line with this Yes thing. It was starting to cross financial and emotional barriers. And not just mine—how would Lizzie feel about this? It’d be a hell of a lot of pressure to put on her.
So it was simple.
I couldn’t do it.
I sighed.
I had failed.
I would tell Ian in the morning. I would tell him that he was right. That I was afraid. That there are some things you just can’t say yes to no matter
where
they might lead.
I zipped up my bag, put my credit card-sized ministry ID in my wallet—just in case there were any baby-naming emergencies in Scotland—and, with a heavy heart, popped the wallet in my pocket.
And then … I took it out again.