Hair

Once upon a time, there was a man who wrote very, very quickly. His name was Hair. He became the fastest writer in the world. Someone named Let Turle raced him in a wordsprint, and won. This is Let Turle's story.

Hair found the practice of writing very easy, indeed. Words marked on the page at a rate of over one hundred per minute. The pace was constant. Every moment he was working at his profession, the words came. Simple people of a lower caliber often competed with him, and lost in the end.

His endurance was matched by Olympic athletes. His challenge was yet a challenge of the mind, not body. The figures of speech and other clever tools he used in order to write great, long works were unmatched. Not only was Hair a very fast writer, but he was also a very good one.

Another man named Ger’broshauxn (self-titled) said this of the author, Hair: “He is unmatched in typing skill. He is unmatched in lingual efficiency; dialectal proficiency; metaphorical prosiousity. He is the man at the tip of your tongue, when you are recalling any genius of the past. He has replaced them, and outdone them, etc.”

But Ger’broshauxn is known for going on and on about things.

Hair won all wordsprint tournaments, out-writing each competitor with a word count that tripled or quadrupled the others. Once, a man named Let Turle asked Hair about his victories.

“How is it that you always win, when you constantly write, and never take time to reflect on the true nature of our world? Or ponder the mystery of existence? Do the words comes to you from a place in your mind? Or come in silly sentences which I have seen (and thought lacking) unrelated to humanity’s true existence?” Let Turle recieved a long response from the secretary who imitated Hair’s style.

“Hair is the man we have always looked for in writing. His authorship has surpassed the quality and quantity of any other writer. He is virtuoso,” she wrote in the memo. The memo went on to summarize the plots of three of Hair’s books, with analysis of their deep relevance to the human condition.

“If you wish to compete with Hair,” the memo concluded, “We offer a wordsprint challenge between you and Hair. We only allow such a nonstandard competition because of your reputation as author of Battle of the Turing Bots. Hair loved the books, although it was short and, well, slow.”

Let Turle smiled heroically, and specified a few rules, which would not obstruct any normal writer. The secretary, a former accountant, accepted the rules (they seemed mathematically fair) and scheduled a wordsprint for July 19, 8:00 PM.

When the day came for the illustrious authors, Hair and Let Turle, to compete, the secretary re-memo’d Hair about the rules of the game. Rule number one: In the first line, you must use just five syllables. Rule two: The second line must contain seven syllables. Rule three: You must repeat rule number one and two for the following lines, with a double line break every third line.

Hair emailed the secretary immediately. “What is this? A haiku contest?”

“The rules shouldn’t be a problem. Instead of writing a haiku, just divide your lines up by syllable, Hair,” the secretary responded. “Piece of cake for you, right?”

When the contest began, Hair approached the booth of Let Turle, and knocked gently on the particle board. “Mr. Turle?”

The other author noisily rearranged his notecards and opened the small door into the booth, which was about the size of a small bathroom. “What do you want, Hair?”

“The rules, my friend. What are they for?”

Let Turle smiled heroically again. “The rules are the form our writing will take for the wordsprint. If you cannot alter your form, forfeit now! Everyone will soon know your talent lacks flexibility,” he said. “You can write fast, but can you write something useful to modern man?”

Genuinely offended, Hair decided not to respond, and memo’d his secretary instead. “He is unprofessional! Why have you agreed for me to interact with him in a wordsprint?”

“You mustn’t worry yourself with the rules.”