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Bobby claimed his tumor was actually hair, an assertion Chloe found rather hard to believe. His hair was voluminous in a matter of matted tresses. It was similar to clumps of coiled seaweed that had grown furry while roasting under sunlight. When he walked, there was a distinct bounce to the rounded edges farthest from his scalp, which supposedly suggested an inclination toward regular hair. However, as it carried a foul smell far worse than pond scum, and Bobby seemed unable to comb his fingers through it without snagging on bristling curls, Chloe was more disposed to state it was a tumor.
Bobby snapped otherwise. He declared it was his hair. He just had trouble maintaining it, saying as much with his head bowed and eyes darting to a conveniently placed bush.
For that, Chloe offered a unique proposal, which led them to the game room.
Bobby was sitting on a beanbag chair with his legs pulled to his chest. He wrapped his knobby arms around his equally knobby knees while Chloe gathered what she required. It wasn’t exactly what she needed, but she had to do with the utensils presented to her. From a wooden cabinet, she pulled out a cardboard box filled with artistic materials and secured a pair of cheap, gaudy, safety scissors. She snipped the air, noting the wavy, plastic blades, and hoped they were good enough. While she would have preferred an average pair, Agent Vodello had removed any sharp objects from the lodge and other buildings.
Supposedly, it had to do with Crystal and Clem. As soon as she learned they were involved, Chloe decided it was best to let that curiosity go. She didn’t want to sit through another one of their asinine cheers about outer space riddled with their ignorant fallacies.
Bobby twisted toward her as she approached. Her footsteps were light enough for the floorboards not to creak. He arched a heavy brow at the scissors.
“You, um, you think it’s gonna work? It doesn’t look like it clips that great.”
“Perhaps. These would never be my first choice, but to use a saying from my paternal earthling parent, best to try than not try at all.”
Bobby hummed, sounding disgruntled. He drummed his nail-bitten fingers against the ends of the carpet. Then, he huffed out a sigh and squared his back as best as he could with his hunch.
“Okay, well, if ya say so. How are you gonna do this again?”
Chloe surveyed the situation with a slightly wrinkled nose. She was grateful her helmet had been long perfected. If she wasn’t wearing it, then she knew she would have been assaulted with a sulphuric smell stemming from his follicles. Fathians had a particularly grody odor, and Bobby’s unkempt tumor worsened the stench.
But he, too, was an ambassador. She wanted to maintain her friendship with her fellow intergalactic envoy, even if Fathians relished in their violent exploits. While he exhibited the same malice toward their fellow campers, he had expressed a willingness to compromise and cooperate. Setbacks occurred, and they were no cause for alarm, so long as he continued trying.
Among humans, the act of cutting one’s hair was a sign of trust. He wouldn’t have agreed if he harbored suspicion. And with that in mind, Chloe leaned around him, shrouded in the shadow cast by his alleged hair.
“I think the best course of action would be to trim around the edges. Then, I can try combing.” She reached into her pocket, felt the comb borrowed from Quentin, and snipped the air once more. “The key word is try, of course. No guarantee this will work, okay?”
He nodded and craned his neck back, allowing her more access to his hair. She stepped away, briefly overwhelmed by the smell she likened to a spraying skunk. She commented that he needed to use shampoo more often, and Bobby scraped his nails against his sunburned jaw.
Chloe adjusted her grip. She reached for the nearest, swaying lump. She expected to start at what she assumed was the end and work her way to the hilly range near the top of his tumor. She weaved the scissors around a rather bulbous knot, and forcefully, she jerked her thumb and forefinger inward, bringing together the blades.
The ends pressed and sliced against each other, but nothing clipped. The knot endured and trapped the unreliable instrument inside like a seam stick in a ball of yarn. She watched it wiggle with every slight shift of his hair, briefly lost for words. Shaking her head, she grabbed the scissors and pulled her arm, only for her palm to feel empty. Her hand had slipped free from the handle, and the scissors remained stuck. Chloe couldn’t stop her mouth from dropping, stunned into a rare bout of silence.
“Uh, Chloe? What’s going on back there?”
“It’s, well, sorry to say this, Bobby,” she began with a slow sigh, “but the scissors are caught in your hair.” She patted his back when he tried pivoting. “Not to worry. I’ll have it out. Sit still.”
Bobby fidgeted, shoulders hunching. Chloe grabbed the scissors, and jerked her wrist. Left and right, right and left, her hand whipped, and the scissors refused to budge. The handle was free, but the blades were jammed into the thicket of his tresses. Frowning, her cheeks flushing, Chloe pushed her heel into his shoulder blades, winced as he yelped, and with both hands, yanked with every ounce of mustered strength.
Crack!
Chloe tumbled to her bottom. A harsh glint of skittering light reflected off the floorboards. Neither dared to breathe, and Chloe’s rationale ceased along with her thoughts. Matching Bobby’s glacial pace as he turned, she stared at her hand, discovering one half of the scissors.
Near the short staircase, point jammed into the wall, was the other.
Mouths agape, Chloe lowered her scissors as he touched his hair.
“Bobby, are you positive this isn’t a tumor?”
He lacked a response.