Sandbag Hairdresser - Blog 96

Once upon a time in the dusty town of Gritsville, there was a 25 lb sandbag named Sandy Scissors who decided it was destined for greatness beyond being a doorstop.

Sandy had overheard the townsfolk complaining about bad hair days and thought, “I’ve got weight, I’ve got texture—why not me?” So, with a dream and a leaky seam, Sandy rolled itself into the local salon and declared itself the newest hairdresser in town.

The first client was Marge, a woman with a towering beehive that hadn’t been touched since 1983. “Give me something fresh,” she said, plopping into the chair. Sandy, lacking arms or finesse, did what it knew best—it flopped right onto Marge’s head. The beehive collapsed with a poof of hairspray and dust, leaving Marge’s hair flattened like a sad pancake sprinkled with sand. “It’s avant-garde!” Sandy rasped through its burlap, as Marge screamed, “I look like I lost a fight with a beach!”

Next up was Tim, a hipster with a man-bun begging for “volume and grit.” Sandy, eager to please, wobbled over and thumped onto his head, unraveling the bun into a tangled, sandy snarl. Grains trickled down Tim’s beard as he stared in the mirror. “Dude,” he said, “this is, like, post-apocalyptic chic. I’m keeping it.” Sandy beamed—well, as much as a sandbag could—thinking it had found its niche.

Word spread, and soon Gritsville’s salon was packed with curious clients. There was Old Man Jenkins, who wanted a trim but got a scalp full of sand instead, muttering, “Feels like the desert’s dandruff.” And then there was little Susie, whose pigtails turned into gritty dreadlocks after Sandy’s “special treatment.” The townsfolk dubbed Sandy’s style “The Sandstorm Special”—a chaotic blend of flattened, sandy, and slightly abrasive hairdos that somehow became the town’s hottest trend.

But Sandy’s reign ended when a fancy new stylist, armed with actual scissors and a blowdryer, breezed into town. Sandy couldn’t compete and was gently retired to the salon’s porch, where it resumed its old job as a doorstop. Still, on windy days, folks swore they could hear it whisper, “Just one more head…” as sand trickled wistfully from its seams. And in Gritsville, the legend of the sandbag hairdresser lived on—proof that even a sack of dirt could dream big, one bad hairdo at a time. 

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