ONCE UPON A TIME, BEFORE THEY WERE MISS FAIRCHILD…
Before they were referred to in hushed tones and shouted of by hoarse voices…
And before they could boast the ability to turn any night into Saturday Night…
Before all of this, Miss Fairchild needed a name. They had spent many sleepless nights scouring newspapers for fortuitous collisions of words, stabbing fingers into random pages of dictionaries, diagramming brainstorm sessions with vast sheets of butcher paper tacked to living room walls, all to no avail.
In a fit of pressure-cooked despair, the band did the only thing they could in such searching moments: they sent Daddy Wrall to the salon. Mr. Z, a genius in the trimming-of-locks and sculpting-of-hairs, was sure to have an answer to this dilemma.
But Z’s suggestions fell flat. As he sunk deeper into malaise, listening to the snip of shears, watching brown hair fall softly onto the floor, Wrall began to give up. The band would be nameless forever, a union of pop and soul music that never happened. Their dreams of all-night parties with rooms full of hands clapping and feet stomping, their visions of wistful and nostalgic laments to mysterious past loves, their plans of fusing their influences into a unique sonic experience that would leave fans restlessly searching the internet for more – all dashed upon the rocky shores of namelessnessdom, that treacherous land where so many great ideas go to die quiet, anonymous deaths.
“…and in any case,” the follicle fabulist was saying, “I’m no good at names. Why do you think this place is called ‘Mr. Z’s Salon,’ anyway? Names, not so much. Now, hair, that’s another matter. See here, where others might deign to use clippers, I would never dream of…”
Just then, the chime of the bell on the salon’s door caught Wrall’s attention. Shade of a pink hat, wisp of a mysterious chin, shimmer of a posterior departing.
“Who was that?” said Wrall, in a kind of reverie.
“Who, that, who just left? Miss Fairchild, and none other. Now that is a woman! When I cut hair – ” and he snipped ” – I dream of her, I dream of such beautiful tresses! And that smile she gives me, a little sexy, a little distant – mm hmm, how she inspires me. That’s what you need, Wrall – ” and he snipped again ” – a muse to inspire you. Now, when I was younger, I thought of…”
But at the word muse Wrall’s heart had leapt. He knew their search for random confluences of words were at an end, for it was not a catchy name the band needed, nor an ironic one. No, it was a name to give them confidence as their energies flagged in the wee hours of the night, sweat dripping as they blew their horns and belted out their tunes and roused the ecstatic crowd to new levels; a name to buoy them on its wings as they adventured into new realms of sonic wonderlands; a name, at last, to inspire them.
And so they took down their butcher paper with its wild diagrams of brainstorms, so they folded up their newspapers and recycled them, and so they replaced their dictionaries on the shelves: for they had a name. And if one night, as Daddy Wrall lifted his voice to the rafters, and Sam Nice cut breaks and spun samples, and Schuyler Dunlap beatboxed upon his silver flute, they caught a distant glimpse of a pink hat in the corner of the room, with that mysterious smile beneath and a sex curve to the hips, they would know their muse was with them, in spirit and in name.