In a quiet glade on a grass-covered hill by the ocean, a small herd of wide-horn cattle graze on the lush green expanse. They’re a quiet crowd, making little sound besides the chomping of grass between their teeth. A low, cool wind blows across the exposed patch of grass.
Something odd descends toward the ocean side of the meadow. A dot and a red splash appear against the dull grey backdrop of the overcast sky. Most of the herd doesn’t notice. But one or two give the strange object a glance. It descends, in slow loops, until it materializes into something other than two marks of color. It’s a man strapped into seat, a paraglide chute opened above him. As he eases toward the earth, the man looks at the herd of cows expectantly, a mixture of anxiety and excitement on his face.
With a yank of his right hand, he attempts to turn toward the grassy hill. One curious steer chews his grass and watches as the man’s face turns from confusion to panic. He’s turned too hard, and he’s going to miss completely. He gives a quiet chirp of concern just before he vanishes below the hill and out of view.
Three seconds later, there’s a dull thud and a shout. The cattle do not react.
Another thirty seconds pass, and then the man appears once more. He marches up the hill, dusting grass and sand off his clothes. A worn brown pack weighs down his shoulders as he trundles up to the edge of the cattle’s field. His black helmet remains strapped to his head.
Gingerly, the man lifts his pack off of his shoulders. Each move is exaggerated, done with too much care for fear of making noise. With the bag off his back, he’s about to set it down on the ground when a huge fly buzzes past his ear. He turns in surprise, mouth agape, and the fly zooms right in.
He panics and drops the bag with a loud clang. Cringing at the racket, he digs fingers into his mouth, desperate to shoo the fly out. He succeeds, and the offended insect performs a quick, aggressive fly-by before wandering off to some less-hostile corner of the field.
Collecting himself, the man crouches over his bag. He quietly opens it and pulls out a small notebook. He sneaks a peek at the cattle, worried that they have been rattled by his approach. None seem to have shown the slightest hint they’ve noticed him. Flipping open the notebook, he checks the advice.
To Acquire the Head Hair of a Wide-Horn Steer
– Approach with caution. Move slowly, no sudden jerks/twitches/sneezes
– Make no sounds. Breathing is acceptable. Panting is not
– Clip only a piece of their head hair. Nothing else will work
– Retreat with caution. See tip #1
The man nods, seemingly to convince himself he has it down. He stuffs the notebook back into the bag and extracts a pair of scissors. He makes sure they’re all the way closed and grips them around the blades just like he was taught in school. Safety first. He stands and gives a few awkward stretches, arms up and out, legs kicking at odd angles. His head rolls around once, cracking a few times. Ritual warm-up complete, he takes one deep breath to settle himself.
He steps onto the main body of the field and begins to move toward the cattle at slow-motion speed. He lifts his leg at a sloth’s pace, taking ten seconds per step. His arms hang out askew, half-forgotten as he concentrates on the notebook’s first tip. To the cattle, he appears as a cartoon spider who’s in control of only some of his limbs at any given time.
“What’s this idiot doing?” the curious steer asks his neighbor.
“Couldn’t possibly guess,” his friend replies.
For the next twenty minutes, the man repeats the laborious creep toward his bovine targets. One foot lifts, eases through the air, gently sets back in the ground. Finally, mercifully, he reaches the hindquarters of one of the cattle. Two more long, lanky, awkward steps bring him even with the steer’s shoulder.
With great care, the man moves the scissors to his other hand. He dips his fingers into the grips, warily eyeing at the steer as he arms himself. Slowly, so slowly, he moves his hand forward, scissors open, until the blades ease into position. They glint, as if in anticipation, around a thick, curling lock of reddish-brown hair. The man moves his other hand directly under the dangling strand. His eyes go wide in fear and excitement, then he mashes them shut.
Snip. The blades ease through the hair. The freed hunk falls into his open hand.
With a quizzical sound, the steer swings its head. The man ducks, just a bit, and the huge horns pass right over the top of his helmet. He freezes as the steer levels an even stare at him. For a long moment, neither moves. It’s impossible to tell if the steer is upset, and the man remains steadfast in his conviction that if he doesn’t move, he cannot be seen.
With a snort, the steer abandons the scrutiny. His big head turns back forward, then drops low to reload on grass.
The man grins in delight and scampers off, abandoning all stealth. The herd of cattle do not react.
Back at his bag, the man plops onto the grass sitting with his legs crossed. He digs out a small mortar and pestle, a few bags full of colorful ingredients and a honeycomb. In a rush, he empties the colorful ingredients into the pestle and drops the honeycomb on top. Next, he sprinkles in the recently-stolen hair clipping. Then he looks around surreptitiously, as if worried he might be seen. But of course it’s just him and the herd. So he quickly spits into the pestle, jams the mortar in and begins to work the contents into a mushy paste.
After a minute or two, the ingredients are as mixed as they’re going to get. The man pokes the tip of his pinky into the mixture, and nods in uncertain satisfaction. He sets down the pestle and, sheepishly despite being entirely alone, removes his helmet.
Underneath, he’s completely bald.
With a deep breath of expectation, the man picks up the pestle. He crosses himself and dips a hand into the paste. He slathers it onto the smooth skin of his round head, taking care to cover every inch. Conscientiously, he drags a finger around the inside of the stone bowl. Every last dollop goes into position on his head.
Nerves written plainly on his face, he screws his eyes shut tight. His fingers cross on both hands. His lips move slowly, and he counts down from ten.
Three… two… one.
He throws his eyes open and looks up, as if he could see the top of his head. In exploration, he dabs his fingers into the gunk on his head.
Nothing.
Shoulders slump. He shakes his head, and wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.
Behind him, a few low thumps signal an approaching steer. Overwrought, the man does not turn as the curious steer ventures to the edge of the field. With a tilt of his head, the steer gives a soft snort, questioning.
The man turns his head. Unable to help himself, his eyes move up, to the lush hair falling from the steer’s head down over his eyes. Envy and appreciation flit across his face, but they’re quickly replaced, again, by sadness.
The steer smiles and takes a few more steps forward until he hovers over the sitting man. His long, dense tongue flops out of his mouth. And with a one great big lick, the steer clears the paste off the top of the man’s head.
Caught way off guard, the man cringes at the feeling, but then bursts into laughter. The absurdity of the situation envelopes him all at once. The cow grins, wide and close-mouthed.
Because something wonderful is happening. On the man’s gleaming, wet head, pale brown hair springs out of the bald pate. It grows with pace, and soon covers the man’s entire head. But it doesn’t stop at just a thin layer. It fills out, growing long and lush, twirling around into beautiful curls.
As the man comes down from his fit of laughter, the steer shakes his head, making his long hair flop back and forth. The man looks back at him, not getting the message. The steer snorts and shakes his head again. Confused, the man mirrors the motion. And feels hair flop on his head.
Joy washes over his face. He drives both hands into the locks covering his head. Fingers run through curls, and he yanks on clumps of hair as if he can’t believe what he’s feeling is truly there. But the hair’s natural and real.
The man looks around, happy-panic, trying to find something to act as a mirror. He fails, and looks at the steer. The big creature tilts his head and points with a horn toward the hill that leads down to the beach. Dotted along the shore are myriad tide pools, shallow and still and reflective. The man dashes off, whooping in triumph.
As soon as he’s gone, the steer’s face goes from smiling to disgusted. He spits desperately, clearing out the horrible taste of the hair-mixture from his mouth. He licks his lips, grimacing as the taste is gone but not forgotten.
With one last look down the beach at the now-dancing man, the steer clomps back over to the herd. He dips his head, grabs a mouthful of grass, and settles back into the comfort of his routine.
The Tall Tale Year 