There is a clerk at the neighborhood drugstore who has rather alarming hair. It is carefully arranged, with the aid of copius amounts of product, into a kind of pompadour wave on top of his forehead. It’s a kind of unholy cross between Jimmy Neutron and Ed Grimley, and I CAN’T LOOK AWAY. I feel like that socially inept friend of Husband’s who always addresses remarks to my chest; I can’t talk to him without looking at his hair. And he’s always very pleasant and professional, so I need to respond to his, “How are you?’ and “Do you have a CVS card?” and “Have a great day!” out of basic politeness. In fact, although he’s only a teenager, he’s the most professional clerk in the store.

I found out recently that he’s 17 years old, he just graduated from high school, and he’s running for mayor. He seems pretty serious about it, too. Although it seems like folly to turn over the reins of our city to someone so inexperienced at this point, with the school budget crisis and all, I can’t help hoping that he makes a good showing. He’s a sort of Obama in a field of smarmy Hillary types, two of whom have grave problems with the English language. This kid has at least taken a grammar class in the past five years, and anyway, a guy with the confidence to wear that hair would probably be able to face down a bunch of city councilors with ease.

The city newspaper recently reported on each candidate’s “war chest,” their ridiculous term for an election fund. The incumbent has the colossal sum of $11,000, virtually guaranteeing his re-election. A sign on every lawn! My friend C., who is on top of all things political in our fair city, told me that The Hair has $70. $40 came from his grandmother.

The primary is Tuesday. Godspeed to The Hair! I may not be voting for you, but I’ll be pulling for you.