Deep in the Valley of Hair Salons the dolls dance dirty and dangerously. 

A quick call from the barker begins the performance. Barbies, Kens, Midges and Allans start to spin. Doll feet moving in a syncopated, rousing rhythm of one-two-three one-two-three one-two-three. The pace moving faster and faster as ever-more dolls join the fray.

Is it really as dangerous as they say? he asks.

Deadly, I say.

But still we cannot look away.

Hair all akimbo, the dolls start to limbo in a conga line across the room. The room shakes with their bouncing booties and tapping feet. One-two-three one-two-three one-two-three.

The chairs and dryers rattle in the salon. Scissors and combs fall off of carts. Shampoos and dyes drop from the shelves.

Like an army of evil Elvises the dolls swivel their hips, angrily asserting their domination of the room.

We better go, I say.

Can we watch a little longer, he asks.

I shake my head no, but before we can go they cut us off from the door. Twirling their way in our direction. No longer a dance but a full-on doll insurrection.

And we’re trapped.

Grab a curling iron, I say, melting’s the only way. 

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