Ralph had a problem. He was balding. Everyone knew it, despite his increasingly desperate comb-over attempts. Honestly, I didn’t think it was a big deal. He’s balding, so what? He was by any other measure the most on-the-nose portrayal of a single, middle-aged, bespectacled accountant you could imagine. His fleeting hair was just another sign that he was cast perfectly to perform the sacred monthly ritual of balancing the company’s ledger accounts. But in the end, I guess Ralph had other ideas. He made his grand exit about two months ago, and no one’s really heard from him since.
It all started when Linda (that cold-hearted bitch in that office over there) made a snide remark to him that fateful day in the coffee room. I wasn’t there for it, but she slid up to him and casually offered something to the effect that his “choice of hairstyle” was embarrassing the rest of the office and that he should “choose something more in-line with his personality”. Poor guy was too mild-mannered to say anything in the moment, but you could see the crushing despair in his eyes that afternoon as he stared emptily at his spreadsheets. He stayed later than usual that day, and I left him with a quick “see ya tomorrow” before dipping out. I probably should have checked in on him and made sure he was okay, but I didn’t know the guy too well, and I didn’t want to interfere in business that wasn’t my own. The moment came and past, and all that night I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. To be honest, I was kind of worried he’d come in and we’d have one of those news report situations where he would just snap and start stabbing people with his scissors, but thankfully that didn’t happen. He did, however, end up being the talk of the office that next day.
By the time I got to the office that morning, Ralph was sitting at his desk stoically typing away at his computer, same as he always had, save for the wild, five-inch, neon pink mohawk that stuck up like upside-down ice cream cones from his cubicle. He was half-accountant, half 80’s punk rocker minotaur, but acted as if it were any other sleepy Wednesday at the firm.
When I saw it I figured it was a giant prank, a big middle finger to our lovely Linda. It was actually kind of smart, because in theory Ralph could have used the hairpiece as a way to alert HR about the “lack of team player” mentality she was expressing. And anyway, if you’re going to make a statement, you may as well make it big, eh? Better story that way. We all laughed it off, Ralph included, though he kept it on throughout the day. Gotta get your money’s worth, I supposed.
Except the next day he sauntered into the office a bit later than usual with a smile beaming as bright as his mohawk. A couple of us chuckled again, but the novelty had worn off, and the rest of the day was spent tending our own business.
By the third day, he was asked to see our HR rep Veronica who supposedly quoted some rule about wearing “work appropriate attire”. I’m not sure this is true or not but supposedly Ralph pointed at that pristine starched white shirt of his and replied that he had worn this same style of shirt for the past 10 years without complaint. You can probably imagine how things turned out. Veronica — she’s pretty green you see — wasn’t quite sure how to broach the topic of the toupee, having never interacted with one in real life. In her mind, it was an article of clothing — just take it off why dontcha — and she’d toss him back to our little fishbowl of productivity. But Ralph stood proud and tall. His hair was his business, which did not constitute the definition of ‘attire’, thank you ma’am and walked out. Shoddy rule writing, if you ask me. If they wanted to control our hairstyles, just use plain English! Anyway. It was a stalemate and their 30 minute meeting ended with Ralph walking back to his desk and pushing his numbers around as if nothing happened.
The fourth day, John Barker came into the office. Now the company meant business. John’s always been the man in the high castle, away doing business here and there or otherwise in his home office, too good for his VP suite adjacent to us peasants. After a quick meeting with Veronica in his office, wouldn’t you know it Ralph gets called in. The rest of the office was dead silent, staring intently at nothing on our screens, ears straining to hear any hint of a confrontation from that narrow crack below the door. Ralph’s steps were slow but steady, like a cowboy pacing before his duel at high noon. I don’t recall this, but a couple of others said that he even had a metal chain jingling out of his pocket, like he was a were-biker due to complete his transformation as soon as the books were closed next week.
Not ten minutes later he came swaggering out, followed by Veronica at a wary distance. We all stared. His cubicle neighbor broke the tension, “so how’d it go?” Mike asked with a trained nonchalance. “I’ve been told to pack my stuff, so I guess that’s that” Ralph replied evenly. A handful of coworkers, myself included, quickly jumped up and crowded Ralph’s desk. “What? Can they do that? On what grounds?” There was a small flurry of commotion that Veronica couldn’t quell.
“You know, honestly, it doesn’t really matter.” He calmly packed up his assorted cubicle flair — his own ergonomic keyboard, a couple of stress relief balls, and a picture calendar of exotic landscapes. “Well,” he addressed the crowd with a hint of a smile, “I’ll see you guys around.” He marched out the door and that was that, the rest of us too stunned by his uncharacteristic abruptness to call out after him or notice his ten-year anniversary plaque in the trash.
As I said, no one’s really heard from him since that fateful day. ‘Most intense mid-life crisis I’ve ever seen’, according to Linda. I’m not too sure, though. I used to think that those wig and toupee shops preyed on our insecurities, offering false promises of youth and vitality to poor hapless rubes who couldn’t face reality. But after Ralph, I’ve come to second guess that. Maybe a toupee could be more than just a mask you wear or a lie you tell yourself. Maybe it could even be a badge of self-expression or an inner truth you expose to the world.
A few of us here like to take turns imagining what Ralph’s up to now. Mikayla thinks he joined a motorcycle gang terrorizing highway diners. George in sales swears he saw him the other day working at a different firm across town. I like to imagine he’s out further west somewhere, Portland or Albuquerque or something, playing the lead guitar in some metal band with that starched white shirt and big bubblegum mohawk. Whatever the case may be, I’m sure he’s doing it the way he wants to.
