Nuclear war. Millions killed. Only a few will survive, including you. You’ll be the last hair stylist in America.
“We need someone who knows agriculture,” the settlement Governor will say when you approach the gate. “And we need physicians of course. And carpenters to help us rebuild, electricians to see if the grids in the area can be up and running again.”
“Your hair looks awful,” tell him. “I can fix that.”
He’ll start to close the gate on you. Stick your foot in the gate to block it.
“Hey,” tell him. “You want to be governor of this little settlement? Or you want to go on to be governor of all the settlements? Because we’re all going to need someone to look up to, but we’re not going to look up to anyone with hair like that.”
He thinks about it. “You can tell I’m ambitious, can you?”
Shake your head. “I can tell you’re a man with bad hair. Let me ply my trade.”
The gate reopens and you begin grooming the future president of the newly risen settlements of the fallen world.
Happy The Last Hair Stylist In America Day!
