All evening the world was celebrating with loud bangs and colorful explosions – it was a fresh beginning, a new year.
Because of her deep understanding in the art of hair cutlery, Mrs. Bufflerworn was feeling particularly important (as she usually did), and was pleased with the day’s business.
Cutting an old man’s peach fuzz hair, she watched fireworks sprout like mushrooms from the city below.
Demanding a better view, the man sat up straight and Mrs. Bufferworn was given a moment of relaxation, where she pondered her thoughts carefully, stroking her most prized possession: her long, bushy, yet sleek, auburn beard.
“Es yeh know, I like it to be real short and soft fer my pillow,” the old peachy man said loudly, pulling her from her fantasies of boisterous, blooming, billowing hair.
“Fantastic is my motto, I would not forget.”
Grumbling, the peach-man settled back into his chair, eyeing the fireworks and lanterns from their rooftop perch.
Handling his round, peachy head with care, Mrs. Buffleworn skimmed his hair with ease, leaving it softer and fuzzier than it had been previously.
Indifferently, the man stood up, his back hunched; running his hand through his hair he grimaced.
“Just right,” he said gruffly, and he exited.
Kicking the door closed behind her last customer of the evening, Mrs. Buffleworn smoothed out her beard, as if by habit.
Lightning flashed by the huge glass windows and ships buzzed through the air, trailing plastic advertisements for skin softening lotions and fast food restaurants.
Mountains of glittering merchandise lined the streets, colorful smoke puffed from pipes around doorways and children shrieked shrilly as they bounced down the sidewalks.
Noodle Day was widely celebrated throughout the world and aside from the obvious celebration of pasta, it had become something of a party for celebrating life and planetary enjoyment – it was a sort of new year.
Orbs, in a variety of sizes and colors floated through the air and Mrs. Bufferworn leapt up to tap one with a long, thin index finger.
Popping like a puss filled blister, it showered her with bubblegum colored confetti.
Quickly, she wiped the bits of glossy paper from her beard and beehive, snatching glances around herself to see if anyone had seen her spurt of childishness.
Reverting back to her business woman stride, she jolted forward, beard sticking indignantly out from her slightly upturned chin.
Slicking back her eyebrows with a moistened finger, she examined some peevish children setting off sparklers under the seats of the bellowing vendors, enjoying immensely, though secretly, the way that they snickered and got away with their mischief.
Toppling in laughter as a particularly large vendor had his buttocks toasted, the three children ran past Mrs. Bufferworn, their eyes alight with excitement.
Unusual as it was, she smiled and felt a pang of loneliness creep through her veins, her beard quivered a little under the pressure of the smile, and she stroked it absently.
Vines of flaming tissue paper snaked their way down the gutters, lighting up the streets with a cheery glow, Mrs. Bufferworn looked sideways down the street, then crossed it briskly.
“Wait, there, little waffle guts!” she cried out to the three children; they flicked their fingers nervously and ran, but manners held them back shyly.
Xylophones were being sold for 14 snares a piece at the kiosk to their right, she carefully shaded her eyes from the lantern light and advanced on the children.
Yellow teeth protruded from the tallest child’s mouth, her eyes were crossed and her arms were suspended in the air, like wings ready for take-off.
Zipping her jacket up closer to her throat, Mrs. Bufferworn looked sadly at the three children, she stammered, “Uh, Happy Noodle day! I saw your sparklers,” she winked, turned on her heels and stalked away.