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The shears! They were gone. And just when he needed them most. Torn awake by saber-tooth snarls, Klump tore apart his cave to search. 

Klump was a barber. He cut hair. Coarse hair. Dirty hair. Hair that snarled. Hair that caused itches and leaves and bugs. It sprouted from odd places – scalps, ears, armpits and chins of both men and women. It stunk, and he chopped it (often for its first time), ravaging the strands with his clumsy, handcrafted blades. He loved it. Caveman hair.

He had inherited the trade from his mother, along with the shears he had somehow misplaced. She had thrown them at him, likely to stab the beast chewing on her arm, but instead, enamoured by the smooth bones tossed at his feet, he simply stood there, tracing a finger over their pale edges while his mother was dragged off. Eaten. She could hardly blame him. Afterall, he was a barber by birth.

And that was lucky. Traditionally, brutes of his brains worked less desirable, more dangerous jobs: foraging for fish and honey; running decoy as others snuck an egg from a nest, sprinting off into the brambles only to return home and find the prize already cracked and eaten, if they even returned home at all.

But not Klump. Despite his mental deficiencies, he ate lots of eggs. Charged two for a haircut, one for a shave; although, he was open to barters. No I.O.U.’s. His shop was in a bad part of town. Once a customer left, frolicking off with a fresh botch or shave, he seldom saw them again. He still asked about them though, usually when their names came up as referrals. Caveman gossip. 

“Big cat, rawrr. Eat me best friend… boo hoo!”

“Aww, no cry. At least his hair look good.”

“Yah – I want hair like that, too.”

“Ok.”

Snip, snap

But now, his shears were gone, and a pack of cats pinched in on him from all directions. Klump climbed a tree and howled. The cats howled back. He scanned for his missing shears, his weapon, his sole belonging. Where was it?

Worried, Klump scratched his bum – scratch, scratch – and in doing so, poked his hand on something sharp sticking up from his loincloth. 

“Ooh-weee!” He moaned and foraged around in his pants. What had poked him?

“Wooo!” It was his shears. Of course! He always found them there. Every night, he tucked them away before bed and by the time he woke up, forgot! Only this time, with the threat of predators closing in, poor Klump scrabbled up a tree and trapped himself. Soon, the cats arrived, lunging and splattering bark just beneath his hairy barefeet.

Obviously, even Klump knew to avoid saber-tooth cats. Huge, mangy beasts, at the top of the food chain, they gobbled up whatever (and whomever) they pleased. Years ago, it had been Klump’s mother. Today, it was Klump.

Or was it? Afterall, Klump was large and heavily muscled. The nutrients meant to develop his brain had gone straight to his biceps and meaty thighs. It was the reason no one dared lift his shears – a highly sought-after tool. It was also the reason his branch broke. A horrible crack and – thud – he crashed to the ground, flattening a cat beneath him. The rest of the pack spooked. Fled. 

Klump sat up. His lower back ached, but at least he had landed on a cat and not his shears. Those lay nearby, their pale handles sticking up from the earth, glowing in the morning sun. 

Relieved, Klump scooped them up and began relieving himself in a bush, both to mark his territory and also because the scare had upset his bladder. 

“Ahhh.” Suddenly, under his warm stream the bush shook violently. Klump startled, afraid.

“Hey!?” He bellowed, already tired of the day’s drama.

“Eww, you peed on me.”

“Oh… sow-ry.”

Out from the dampened brambles clawed a cave woman, stout and beautiful, her hips scantily dressed, her eyes flapping from Klump to his shears and back again.

Klump gawped at her, infatuated almost to the point of forgetting the beasts which had tried to eat him. Almost.

“Run, big cats, rawrr!” 

To emphasize, he bumped past, catching a whiff of her tantalizing aroma – nectar and salt. Aroused, he glanced back. She had not moved and instead was waving, smiling at him, oblivious to the danger prowling about. Immediately, a wash of primeval instincts collided within him:

• Survival – run away.
• Sex – save the damsel (soon to be) in distress.

Unfortunately, his heart was big, bigger than his brain. And a new bump protruding from his loincloth was even bigger yet. He waggled it at her. To his horror, she merely laughed. “Can you cut my hair?”

Disappointed, Klump thought about this. He scratched his head – scratch, scratch – snagging a plump digit in the matted nest of fur. His own hair had not been cut since his mother’s death, and now tumbled down past his waist; although, he hardly noticed it and so never thought to trim it himself.   

“Can you pay?”

The woman giggled and took from her bra two eggs, one from each side, and handed them to Klump. He accepted, carefully weighing them, content at their weight, slightly discouraged at the sudden deflation of her breasts. She caught him staring. No matter, she was less intimidating now.

“Ok.”

Klump worked fast. He worried that the cats would return. One, two flashes of his shears and bangs appeared. He bobbed the back. Scraped the scruff from her upper lip. Full, voluptuous lips. Quickly, he uncovered the speckly brown of her eyes, the lumpy brow, freckles. Quickly, he fell in love and tried to woo her with a joke: 

“Knock, knock”

“Who’s there?”

“Can’t you see now that I cut your hair!?”

His rambunctious laughter drowned out the rustle from behind him, the cat lurking closer, closer, close enough to pounce.

“Oooh-wee!” Too late, Klump bolted. The cat had already snagged his hair, both viscous fangs snarled in the matted locks, dragging him down, dragging him into the bushes.

“Help! Big cat, arghh!” He stabbed at his foe but missed, his shears flailing uselessly overhead. All he had to do was slash his hair, cut ties with death, but the thought never crossed him. Instead, he was thinking of his mother – what would she do? – and remembering, tossed his shears to the cavewoman. She could cut him free.

The cavewoman picked them up. This is what she had come for: the pale, smooth blades; a new life, one of security and freedom. Not a haircut. Deftly, she tucked them into her bra. Klump frowned at how lumpy they made her bosoms look. 

    by: DOM