I sure hope there isn’t a Bad Hair Museum, but during a seemingly endless road trip to nowhere, my subconscious decided that it was a good idea to visit one. I couldn’t say where we were, except that the surroundings were flat and nondescript; green, but not vibrantly so. It was Anywhere, U.S.A.
We weren’t alone. Buses arrived one after the other. The curators of the museum, all sporting deliriously bad hair, greeted us with creepy cheer. Robotic devices ushered us to exhibits of hair paintings, hair sculptures, and living beings walking among us with hairstyles that defied the imagination.
One such creature was lying in an open coffin covered with hair, all of which was attached to his body. The curator referred to him as an illustration of the fact that body hair continued to grow after death, but the man kept repeating, smiling through gritted teeth, “I’m not dead – hee hee hee – I’m not dead.”