What do you call a fish in a wig?
That’s not even a joke; it’s a legitimate question. Why do I ask it? Because my housemate, bless his cotton socks, is an apprentice wig-maker, and just can’t get enough of completing these bizarre briefs sent to him by an acquaintance from the internet. The acquaintance in question, I’m told, is a Russian fellow, and the only fellow wig making apprentice Julian has had the fortune to meet.
So, yeah. That’s how Julian’s pet fish has come to be sporting a wig. Pretty straightforward, really. I just feel like there should be a word for this phenomenon, and there isn’t. I considered going with ‘fig’ or ‘wish’, but they both seemed too whimsical for the actual reality.
Anyway, Julian has gotten so deep into this that he really needs to get some of his own crafting supplies. I’m sure he could get them from a luxury hair stylist. Melbourne has plenty of those, if not an abundance of wig making supply shops. In any case, he needs to stop pinching wax from his sister’s ensuite – especially if he’s not going to tell her about it.
He can’t do that, he says, because then Laurel would find out that he’s been harbouring a secret love of hair styling. Melbourne CBD friends, what do you make of this? 28 year-old dudes keeping up a pretence of having no interest in hairdressing, then sneaking around learning how to make hair pieces – I don’t know. I just don’t know.
But Laurel’s going to figure it out herself, one way or another, and then it’s all going to hit the fan. Julian, of all people, should know how intense she is about her specialty hair products. But then, he’s always been a bit on the odd side… hence the fish in a wig, and the wig making, and so on.