Dance, Music, Sex, Romance

Mario rubbed shampoo through his greasy hair. He wanted it to shimmer like stars, to be a torrent of raw color, a cavalcade of dreams, hopes, and longing. Alas, he had no hair at all. The mirror calmly reflected this fact back to Mario. He was stunned. Just nine hours before, he had had the most delicious coiffure one could ever hope to see. Now it was gone.
It was like the time when his girlfriend had been run over by an ambulance, and her heart had exploded into less than nothing, which was more than it had ever been. They had had a purely physical relationship, the sort Mario always favored. She would gently stroke his marvelous hair as he tenderly put himself inside her. They had little in the way of speech, because she suffered from a severe case of Tin Man syndrome. A ruthless real estate agent, she cornered the market all day long, but had little left for Mario, who wound up disdaining her for her lack of anything real, unless he counted her sumptuous breasts.
When she died, everything was perfect. He had her body, without the fear of her shallow retorts. He would delicately make love to her corpse each night, keeping it dried and pickled, perfectly preserved.
Now, he remembered, last night had been different. He had been so stoned, that he felt like Jesus on the cross. When he moved on to his daily ritual of porking her, he had been only slightly surprised when her long fingernails dug sharply into his back. Soon, he had blacked out, and when he woke up, he found himself in the shower, bald.
He ran outside. She was gone. He saw a yellowing Post-It on the sidetable drawer. It read "I've been pretending to be dead, you sick fuck. But now I have your hair!" He could hear her cackling for miles. Then, he shot himself. She stepped out of his closet, still cackling, and took off his clothes...