Strange things happen here at our Barn House. It may be a quaint journey up past the pond, around the band of upstart trees and into our gravel drive, but living in a 1970's Bad Idea House has its adventures.
Not long ago I went to my pasture to give fresh water to the "
rogue stallion," my invincible donkey, Flash.
As he moseyed up to the gate to greet me, I thought something looked different about him.
He still had that soft, dove-colored hair, and the battle scar across his nose from his run-ins with barbed wired fences. His ears were just at big as ever, turning this way and that like giant sonar dishes picking up signals from outer space.
But there was something about his expression that puzzled me.
Always hungry for attention, Flash never has a problem meeting you square on. He walks straight for you at full speed, barreling forward for a carrot or a scratch behind the ear. And he's not shy about asking for a scratch, even if it's in a personal location. If he wants his, um, rear scratched, he'll just turn and put it right in your face so you can't avoid it.
I call it "seeing Flash's best side."
But on this day, he could hardly bring himself to look me in the eye. He avoided my gaze.
Kinda kicked the dirt a little bit.
"Flash, what's the matter, Buddy?" I asked him, and pulled his enormous head up to eye-level.
And that's when I realized.
Flash had a haircut.
Gone were his wispy locks that gave him that devil-may-care look of rugged independence.
Somehow, some way, his mane and forelock had been scissor-trimmed into short, choppy clumps that stood straight up on his neck and forehead. Mowhawk style. You could see every hurried scissor cut, each angled slightly to give it sort of a "stair step" look.
He looked ridiculous.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again.
Yep. Still there. This is ONE. BAD. HAIRCUT, DUDE.
No wonder he was embarrassed! No self-respecting donkey, albeit one who thinks
too highly of himself, would ever be seen in public with spiked BANGS!
My next question was simple: "WHO ON EARTH...?"
Followed by "WHY ON EARTH?" would anyone come to this remote pasture and give my donkey a haircut?
Surely, this is some kind of prank?
Now, I don't know how fast donkey bangs grow, but my guess is that they can't grow fast enough.
Mystery swirled around our pasture. We dragged anybody and everybody out to get a load of Flash's bangs. I felt a little guilty, using him so shamelessly as a conversation piece, but it's not every day that you get such an opportunity to relish a real live who-dun-it story!
What could possibly be the reason behind this sudden hair faux-pas?
- Was it some kind of a fashion statement, or equine gang signal? Short of wearing matching doo-rags, faux-hawk manes ARE pretty intimidating.
- Was it a subtle claim on my sure-footed friend by a jealous neighbor?
- Was it a scissor-happy kid who was bored and saw a hapless victim across the fence and decided, "why not?"
- Did Flash himself, in an attempt to go for the "metro-sexual" look actually pay for this 'do?
We were abuzz with speculation.
We narrowed the field of suspects. After all, our pasture only borders two other neighbors, so the list was short to begin with.
The owner of Flash's girlfriend and illegitimate mule baby was a likely candidate. A grudge can be a powerful thing, when nursed over months of watching your mare grow with the offspring of a socially ambitious donkey. He might have reason to destroy Flash's good looks.
Or my
"Lagniappe" neighbor. Being from Louisiana, you just never know how she might feel about unkempt hair. Southern women ARE particular, especially when it comes to hair. But we could not recall if she had been in town at the time of the incident.
We even looked at one another with suspicion. Did our alibis check out, or did one of us have opportunity to wield the scissors?
Well, we certainly had opportunity, but no apparent motive. It's embarrassing enough to have a donkey braying at all hours, but one with a bad haircut? Oh, we'd never want that.
The mystery went unsolved for several weeks. And as much as I would have loved to say that Flash was abducted by aliens and forced to endure alien mane treatment, the true conclusion was far less exciting.
I worked up the nerve to ask my Lagniappe neighbor. It took awhile to work it into the conversation.
"Oh yes, hon!" she drawled in her charming southern way. "Ah can't buleeve what happened! It was so funny, we even took pictures of the whole thang!"
It seems her son had been visiting from out of town, and Flash was demanding his requisite attention from anyone near the fence. However, the donkey had recently rolled in a burr patch and was covered in burrs and therefore, difficult to pet.
"This will nevah do," Lagniappe's son said. "Besides, donkeys aren't supposed to have flopped-ovah manes." And so, he took it upon himself that to remove the tangles by cutting the burrs out of Flash's mane. Practical AND fashionable, he reasoned.
I actually SAW the photos, and I'm sorry to say that it looks as if Flash enjoyed the attention.
My neighbor went on to say that, since they all left town early the next day, they forgot to tell me about his rakish new look.
I'll admit I was disappointed, not just to find out the true story, but in Flash's obviously eager participation in the whole thing. It was so much more fun to envision a cloak-and-dagger escapade of slicing and cropping.
And while Flash's mane is starting to grow back to its floppy glory, I've given him strict orders to stay away from people with scissors.
I don't think we want to see what a "trimmed" donkey tail looks like, now do we?
