Curly hair grow out of head, grow pointlessly up, like small birds, like children. But who’s the owner of the hair? A regular prosecutor from Omsk.
He wants to look stern, a real threat to crime and all that’s evil. But somehow a curl is budding again on his head. Strong nose, steel jaw, beaming eyes, his father’s mustache. And the curls surrounding the bold face. No longer the defendants are afraid. The prosecutor is big and sad, floating like an iceberg.
Once, walking from a meeting he sees the Hairurg logo. Oh joy! Oh beauty! Life, tears, love! Half of the logo was cut with a stern hand. His heart is racing, chill goes down his spine, ears hear clicking of the scissors. And it’s important, the logo doesn’t look like one of a horrid hipster barber shop.
You walk into one and everyone’s looking like a lumberjack. They take their hats off and it’s all gel. “Oh, what soft curls! You’re going to be sorry if we cut them off. They are the true beauty! They are the silky murmur! They are the passion!” What can we say, the prosecutor from Omsk doesn’t like barber shops. And then there’s Hairurg. Our hero enters and says “cut them off.” A stone-cold “Yes” is the response.
And it’s like someone pulled a nail, like hundreds of wounds healed all at once! The prosecutor bought a car, repaired his couch, predicted game results and bought a souvenir in Tambov. And laughed like a boy. And prosecuted everyone.