Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
on my mind, and had done so from the day I walked out of that wretched hair clinic. It was
the only thing that was preventing me from being totally happy and relaxed on my cruise. I
felt so unnatural, so phony and fake, and I decided that I was going to do something about
it. I had the answer, and it was going to happen the next day.
I suppose I should have told my brother about my plan, but didn't think it necessary. It was
around noon the following day, Gavin was sitting in the cockpit tending the ever present
fishing line when I decided to go below and take care of my problem.
I went into the head and found a rusty pair of scissors and some hydrogen peroxide. Facing
the mirror, I grasped the offending rug, like some evil cat that was draped across my head,
and proceeded to find the stitches and snip through them. One after another, I snipped away
until the limp and lifeless rug fell into the plastic handbasin with a final thump .Only then
dared I look at my scalp, and what a shock I got! My head was still bristling with weird
blue nylon stitches jutting out at all angles from my head. I had no option but to grab a
hold of them and pull them out one by one until thirty little blue strands had been thrown
out the open porthole. It was all I could do to stop myself crying out in pain: it stung like a
thousand wasps.
Immediately I noticed blood flowing from the openings, and I thought to myself, “Oh Je-
sus, what have I done?” We were miles from any medical help, and my first aid box, while
fairly well stocked, had nothing to help me in this grim situation. I took a face cloth and
sprinkled liberal amounts of the peroxide, rubbing my head with it.
After a while, the bleeding stopped, and I saw something else that made my blood freeze.
There were thirty, large, ugly bumps around my head that looked absolutely hideous. I
looked like a monster. I cursed that hairdresser and his whole damned family! I was very
shaken by the sight of my head and went above deck to show Gavin.
My brother was totally engaged in replacing a fish hook on the line and failed to look up
and see me. I dramatically threw the offending hairpiece into the water, which he suddenly
glimpsed out of the corner of his eye.
“What the hell,” was all he managed to say. Then he turned to look at me. “Jesus Christ,
Jon, what have you done? What are all those bumps?”
“That's where the stitches were. Christ, I hope to God they go away!” I said miserably.
“Have you put something on them? If they go bad we'll be in big trouble.”
I assured him I had, and I sat gloomily in the cockpit looking about and feeling very stupid.
We watched as the “rug” slipped astern of us and slowly sank to Davey Jones' locker.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” I said.
