The Evil Genie grants three wishes a week. Leave a wish in the comments!
snros wishes: I wish my hair was always perfect!
Evil Genie replies: Not a strand falls out of place. You have no flyaways, no frizz, no weird oily patch near your hairline. Your ends are never split and your bangs are just the right length. The cut is classic and timeless and current and interesting and unique all at once. Your hair is everything you’ve ever wanted it to be.
Now, you no longer worry that you wash your hair too much, because you heard that that was bad to do, but you also don’t have to worry that you wash your hair too little, because what if you run into your crush with third-day head? He probably doesn’t want to hear a long explanation about the long-term dangers of shampoo buildup, but that would not stop you from giving it to him. But there is no need to worry — ever! at all! — because your mane is luxurious and beautiful and also the sum total of everything you are. Because you’re a wig!
Yes, more than disembodied, you are disemscalped. You are just a perfect, plastic sheath of hair, and you are sitting atop the majestic head of a drag queen. But not just any queen! You are proudly perched on the head of one the top four contestants in the most important television program of our time, RuPaul’s Drag Race. Unfortunately, the biological gentleman you have helped transform into a vision of womanly beauty has just been told she must lip sync… for her life.
As the first strains of “I Know What Boys Like” by the Waitresses begin, you’re scared. You know that Pepper Ridgefarm, the girl to whom’s fate and head you are tied, performed poorly this week, in a special makeover challenge where they transform government bureaucrats into sexy streetwalkers. Her assignment, a city treasurer from Rochester named Gerald, had virtually no swagger or verve and a boyhood fear of fishnet stockings. Pepper had better WERK, and you’re along for the ride.
Pepper wriggles and wiggles and giggles and shimmies and shakes and splits and swivels and bellyflops. Her competition, Lymania, heaves and thrusts and pirouettes and vogues. As Pepper dances and mouths the words, the pins holding you in place begin to loosen and drop. Her head sweats profusely, soaking you. You are twirled and shook and thrown, barely hanging onto her skull. In one swift motion your last pin comes undone and you are whipped in the sweaty, slimeball face of Santino Rice. Surreptitiously, he looks around, sees that Ru and Michelle Visage have taken no notice, and shoves you in his pants.