Mr. E. Fitzgerald was a quiet old man in his seventies, with a French beard, silvery white hair, a walking cane and an all-knowing smile. He wore a smart grey suit, and pants to suit, too.
He was the Mayor of Marleborough. It wasn’t really a lucrative position, because of the many Multi-National Companies around the place offering employment and high pay.
Who would want to be Mayor if one got more money than the Mayor?
He sipped his coffee as he sat in his unlit room on his couch, and thought beautiful thoughts. “Think beautiful thoughts.” That was his motto.
His entire office would be in chaos, but he would sit on his couch, tell everyone to gather around for one moment, and sit, and think beautiful thoughts.
And it would work. After that moment of silence, everyone would go about their work a lot calmer than before.
But now, there was something on his mind. His tenure was coming to an end. Finding a replacement was proving very difficult, but at least a few tried.
“Charlie!” said he, calling his ever faithful secretary, who came rushing in.
“Cut your hair, Charlie, it looks unruly. And before that, I need the resume for the post.”
Charlie smirked, and said, “Yes, sir.”
Charlie was a butterfingered person. Even at the age of twenty-seven, he was butterfingered. And muddleheaded.
But, when his boss told him something to do, he made sure to do it, even if he flops his mission entirely.
And as of now, his boss had told him to do two things of great importance.
Jason had earned a reputation in Marleborough as a fantastic barber, but he was roughing it. Being a barber wasn’t well paying. He had an aim this year. He was going to join an MNC, because, as everyone always says to him, he was overqualified for a barber.
The bell placed above the door tinkled as Charlie walked in.
He said, “The boss told me to get a haircut, so keep it simple, Jason.”
Jason began cutting Charlie’s hair, and Charlie noticed a paper on the desk. He picked it up and said, “Why do you have a copy of your resume here?”
Jason replied, “I’m planning on joining the MNC.”
Charlie said, “Huh. You really are overqualified for a barber.”
Once Charlie got his hair cut, he paid Jason, and walked out.
The Mayor of Marleborough was sitting in his room, the next day, reviewing the one resume that had reached him.
He thought of the days when being the Mayor meant something. Not everyone could become Mayor.
As he took his seal of approval, and stamped it on the resume, he thought about how, nowadays, governmental positions had become so easy to achieve; barbers were becoming Mayors.
He stood, and sighed, “It is what it is.”
And he walked out the room.