It's not possible to talk too much about Night Girl's hair. It's like when you add 7 to infinity, you don't get something 7 more than infinity, you just get infinity. So it is also with Lydda's bouffante, whose physical and metaphysical dimensions and import are fathomless.You know how all those comic book covers shout that the story inside reaches some "senses-shattering" conclusion? Right, as if. This is senses-shattering, people: seeing Night Girl crash through a floor, bouffante-first, her hairdo unaffected, unmoved, imperturbable, like...
like GOD.
That floor, by the way? Inertron. 100 % pure. Shatters my senses just to look at it; can't feel fingers; blinded, typing from kinetic memory.
But perhaps you're some sort of superbeing and have survived, senses dimmed but intact. Then, prithee, cast your remaining hypervision on this little vignette, pregnant with impossibility: Lydda intends to but THAT fishbowl on THAT hairdo.Hearing ... gone! Aural faculties ... shattered!
It's okay. I can still recover. It's not like she's actually going to be able to get it...
to...
AHHHG! NO NO NO! THAT'S! NOT! POSSIBLE!!!!!
That helmet cannot be on head. Her head cannot be in the helmet.
Some sort of ... supertesseract power inherent in the hair itself? Are its myriad of curls and wavelets actually shifting fractal constructs that deform space around it?
I ... can't ... can't smell anything now. *sob*
It's her! That bewitching space-sorceress, Night Girl! She's doing it somehow. Is she actually Sensor Girl in disguise, warping my perception?
She ... but wait! There she is, in a wheelchair and dying from Crimson Virus ...
BUT HER HAIR IS UNAFFECTED.
Unaffected. Unmoved. Imperturbable. Like GOD.
Sense of reason: gone!
Sens of time: gone
Sense of self: gone!
My sense of identity shattered, I am now become Fire Lad. Crestfallen at Night Girl's blissful unawareness of her effects on others, on society, on reality itself. My wild tangle of unruly and severely over-colored hair matted down in contemplation of the incomprehensible complexity of the superbouffante's shifting moire' patterns of cold, unfeeling obsidian mass, a metaphysical black hole of meaning, so immense in its gravity and power that ...it
even
eclipses
word balloons.
even
eclipses
word balloons.
5 comments:
Obviously, Marge Simpson is her god.
Maybe she is a Flo-ist. You know, that future cult that worships the sassy waitress from the seventies sitcom "Alice." They all wear those impossible beehives.
It's a fascinating faith. Every Tuesday, they attend services wherein a large bowl of hominy is passed amongst the parishoners, each one touching their lips to the sacred bowl.
Indeed, they "kiss her grits."
...I'm sorry. That was terrible. I'll stop now.
Actually, in the 30th century there's a now abandoned plant called Bouffante Island, where all that remains are giantic mysterious statues of women with towering hairdos.
Got here from a link in a later Absorbacon column. I can understand the hair. I had a hairstyle similar to that at my Junior Prom in 1970. The number of pins and quantity of hasirspray would've knocked out any 31 century villain. Nearly did in my date when he tried to help me comb it out the day after....
AS someone who loves big hair I always liked Nightgirls bouffant!
I am leaving this message on 1 May as this blog was referenced in a blog on that day.
And again I say! NightGirl's hair rocked my world!
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