— What the fuck!

Then he looks up and sees that it's me.

— Oh, Joe. Jesus, Joe, what happened to your face, man?

And I start twisting his neck, trying to decide if I should pop his head off.

The thing is, it's not as easy to pop off someone's head as you might think. I settle for forcing his face into the toilet bowl and flushing it a couple times. He comes up gasping.

— The hair, man, the hair!

I slam him against the wall.

— That the only thing on your mind, Phil, your hair?

— Why would I have anything on my mind, Joe? You know me, I don't like to think, it just gets me in trouble.

— You got that right, buddy. Hey, I ever thank you for that call this morning?

He looks a little confused at my change in tone.

— Uh, no, no you didn't.

— Well, hell, that was sure inconsiderate of me.

I reach in my pocket, grab a few bills and tuck them into the breast pocket of his shirt.

— Well thanks, Joe, but you don't gotta do that.

Automatically, he has pulled a comb out of the back pocket of his painted-on black jeans and started to poke at his hair, trying to resculpt it.

— No, I do. I owe you one there. That was good looking out, letting me know the heat was on like that. Too bad I got a call from uptown just about a second later.

His hands are on automatic pilot, crawling over the gooey mound on top of his head.

— Yeah? Sorry I couldn't give you more of a lead there.

— Ya know the real drag about all this, Phil?

— Aw, man, don't call me Phil, ya know I hate it.

— You're right. Philip. I'm sorry. Ya know the real drag about this, Philip?

He's got one hand above his head holding the pomp in place while his Other hand digs in his back pocket for his can of pomade. He's staring straight up so he can keep an eye on the overhang while the restoration continues.