Just Phrens

Yes, it is true that I've been moonlighting on my current job. In all honesty, I am helpless not to. Ever since that fateful day when my fingers accidentally brushed past my wife's scalp, I knew I was destined for a career in phrenology. It started out innocently enough, occasionally asking my wife to let me discern the bumps on her head. Being a good wife, she would let me, my fingers probing, searching, past the growth of her hair to the very roots wherein the secrets lay, locked in the enigma of her cranial deformities. But I soon grew tired of telling the same future over and over and I was filled with the burning desire to run my fingers through the hair of others, deliciously feeling each bump and dip. Being a faithful husband, this desire frightened me and I felt ashamed for not being content to practice this art simply upon my wife but soon my desire overcame my Protestant-based upbringing.

I began by practicing on my friends and acquaintances. The first time, my hands shook so badly that I feared my ability to properly sense the minute variances of cranial elevations would be impaired but as soon as the tips of my fingers touched down on that hoary scalp, a calm came over me and I knew that all would be well: I could feel each anomaly with perfection.

However, as with all our secret sins, a little soon becomes not enough. I was surprised to find how quickly I became disenchanted with the scalps of those I knew. Within a matter of weeks, I found myself signing a lease to open a phrenology booth at a local mall ("Just Phrens"), struggling to keep my passion hidden from my wife who had grown suspicious of my long evenings away and of my tired, aching dandruff-coated fingers

By Uncle Smeggy, spring of 1995