It's been a long year. An alarmingly cheerful couple - born again somethings, I understand - arrived by outrigger and set up a unisex hair salon on my beach, forcing me back to the shelter and relative anonymity of the deep forest. Neither the persistent absence of clientele nor the marauding mosquitoes and sand fleas could daunt their indomitable spirit or their vexatiously continual smiles. They teased and permed each other while they waited for the "rush".
Eventually though, the routine began to prey on him. Perhaps her constant backcombing had some deleterious effect on his moral and cognitive values. For, one morning he came up behind her and as she dipped her head docilely over the lagoon, awaiting the attention of his conditioning fingers, he struck her a mighty blow on the top of the skull, with a large stone. He then dismembered her with what looked like an outsize curry comb, boiled her over a slow fire and gorged himself for over thirty six hours on what smelled like a sumptuous repast.
He seemed quite restored for a while, until the solitude finally got to him and he managed after several attempts to cut his throat on the coral reef. On the same day I regained my beach, along with some of their artefacts, poor stuff in the main.
Robinson Crusoe could never have been a hairdresser and survived. That's probably why he grew such an outlandish beard.
