WARNING: DON’T DIS MY DAD

The next morning, Poppy was in the living room reading the Carlsbad Courier. He held it up so I could see the front page. There was a large photograph of Buckholtz, his body covered in red shaggy hair. The caption read, “Local Boy Has Bad Hair Day.”

“It’s dangerous out there,” Poppy said. “They spotted Bigfoot near your school.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said, with a slight grin.

“I wonder how that happened.” Poppy folded the paper, took off his reading glasses, and scratched his head. “How’s that no-more-shaving invention coming along?” he asked.

“It’s no more. Didn’t work out as I had planned,” I said.

“That happens sometimes. You start in one place and end up somewhere altogether different,” he said, looking at the picture of Buckholtz. “Sometimes better,” Poppy added. “You know, ‘different’ can be ‘better.’”

“Yeah, maybe it’s better.”

I grabbed my backpack, getting ready to go to school.

“It’s okay, Sparky,” Poppy said. “Even though I could sleep in a little longer if I didn’t have to shave, shaving is part of my morning routine. It wakes me up. Refreshes me. Gives me a chance to look myself in the face—ten minutes to stare into the mirror and reflect. That’s time well spent.” Poppy always looked on the bright side. He struggled out of his reclining chair and wobbled into the kitchen. I followed him.

“Poppy?”

“What?”

I hesitated, then asked, “What if you could grow hair again?”

“You’re always thinking, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to look younger? Get those jobs you want.”

Poppy poured himself a cup of coffee (the most popular beverage in the world) and said, “Not having hair. I’ve gotten used to it. It’s who I am—a bald guy.”

“But if you could be an un-bald guy, a guy with a full head of hair,” I said, “wouldn’t you like that more?”

Chloe scurried through the kitchen, grabbing a banana on her way. “Hurry up. Dad’s already in the car,” she said before flying out the door.

Poppy put his coffee cup down, rubbed his bald skull, and smiled. “Hair on my head? Humm. I’d have to spend time washing it, drying it, combing it, cutting it. I’d have to spend money on combs, shampoos, conditioners, haircuts. I don’t know, kid. At my age, hair seems more like a bother than a benefit.”

I watched Poppy return to the living room. He sank into his chair and perused the job listings in the newspaper.

As I was leaving the house, he called out, “Whoever turned Buckholtz into a grizzly bear was using his brain.”

When our Jeep pulled up to school, we saw several television cameras, news journalists, and radio reporters gathered on the front steps. In the middle of the media mayhem was Buckholtz. His new unwanted hair had “evaporated” overnight. Jerry and Don were planted on either side of him like the lion statues at the New York Public Library. (At the time it opened in 1911, the library was the largest marble building ever constructed in the United States.)

“What’s all this?” Dad asked.

“Buckholtz is a celebrity,” Chloe said. “He ran around in a red gorilla suit yesterday.”

“Yeah. Except it wasn’t a suit,” I murmured.

Chloe and I got out of the Jeep, said good-bye to Dad, and ran up the stairs to the front doors, which were obstructed by reporters.

“Mr. Buckholtz!” one of the journalists shouted out, “Do you have any idea how you suddenly grew all that hair?”

“Nope,” Buckholtz answered, relishing the attention.

Another reporter asked, “Do you have any idea how you suddenly lost all that hair?”

“Nope.”

“Do you think it will happen again?” another reporter asked.

“It better not,” Buckholtz said, spotting me in the crowd. “Or something really bad is going to happen!”

He didn’t scare me. Because in my pocket was my vial. I had reloaded it the night before with Hair Today. I was armed and dangerous.

Chloe fired a question of her own, “Mr. Buckholtz, do you think you’ll ever graduate?”

Jerry and Don laughed until Buckholtz threw them a harsh look. The reporters tried to ask more questions, but the morning bell rang and the crowd slowly dispersed. Chloe ran ahead to class. I got as far as the lobby before Buckholtz stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

“Hello, Hairy,” he said, with his cretin pals by his side.

“Hi,” I mumbled.

“Side effect from mononucleosis? Hair attacks? Fatal foot disease?” Buckholtz snarled. “I looked it up, my mom looked it up, my doctor looked it up. You made it up. And now, guess what? I’m going to beat you up!”

Just before he could make a move toward me, Mr. Palimaro, the principal, breezed by and said, “Ten minutes. Get to class, boys.”

Buckholtz waited for Mr. Palimaro to pass before saying, “After school. My fist, your face. Wanna bet which one will win, Hairy-boy?” Buckholtz laughed, then he and his two losers walked off.

His fist would win against my face. No question. But still, it was time for me to stand up to him. I only hoped my noggin’ and my vial of Hair Today would be strong enough to put an end, once and for all, to this barbarian’s threats. I took a deep breath, then called out, “Yes!”

Buckholtz whirled around, “What?”

“Yes. I want to bet.”

“Don’t waste my time.”

“I bet your fist won’t beat my face,” I said, wishing my voice sounded a little tougher. Or lower.

“Oh, really?”

“Because there won’t be a fight.” I stated.

“Are you a fortune teller now?”

“Sorry. No fight.”

I admit my pulse rate was climbing. I thought about some of my favorite factoids: Ninety percent of people have an innie belly button . . . there are 293 ways to make change for a dollar . . . the average life span of a major league baseball is seven pitches . . . a dime has 118 ridges around its edge. When I felt relaxed and ready, I said, “So, wanna bet?”

Buckholtz slowly retraced his steps back to me. “You’d never bet,” he said.

“Wanna bet I’d never bet?”

“Okay. What’s your big bet, Hairy? A penny?

“How does two thousand pennies sound? Twenty dollars that there won’t be a fight,” I said, praying that my plan would work.

Jerry and Don gasped.

Buckholtz continued. “You’re in for a rough day, Hairy. Not only are you going to lose a fight, you’re going to lose, let’s say thirty bucks.”

Jerry and Don looked at each other, excited over how much Buckholtz had increased the wager.

“Forty,” I countered.

“Fifty!” Buckholtz shot back.

Fifty dollars was a lot of money. I had never bet on anything before. This was getting out of hand. I felt myself crumbling. I didn’t have fifty dollars.

“I knew you wouldn’t go through with it. Where would you get fifty dollars? I hear your old man doesn’t have a nickel!” Buckholtz shouted.

They all laughed.

My blood started to boil. Nobody makes fun of my dad!

“Okay. Not fifty,” I said.

“I knew you would fold. See you at your funeral, Hairy. Three o’clock sharp.” He turned to leave.

I plunged my hands into my pockets. “Make it an even hundred,” I said.

Buckholtz spun around. “One hundred dollars? Really, Hairy? You’re willing to lose that much that easily?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“I’m looking forward to winning a hundred dollars. From you.” I popped the stopper out of the vial in my pocket with my thumb and squeezed a large quantity of Hair Today into my right hand, “One hundred bucks, Holtz!”

I removed my hand from my pocket and reached it out to Buckholtz to seal the deal, keeping my palm down so that he wouldn’t see the red goo smeared on the inside of my hand.