A Collective Madness

Dandruff

Nikolai splashed cold water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror above the sink. Eyes, sunken, swollen, and red met his gaze in return. His own, but not familiar. Beads of sweat ran down his brow and over his eyelids. He wiped them away and gripped the edges of the sink.

"Fuck. Okay. Just breath, it's fine," he said to himself. But as if the universe felt impelled to prove him wrong in that very moment, lest he get too confident and carried away in his own arrogance, Nikolai's lunch suddenly rushed up the inside of his throat, getting caught behind his now fully inflated cheeks. He dove to his left and expelled the vomit somewhat in, but mostly around, the toilet, before passing out.

---

At first, when Nikolai received the divorce papers from his wife's attorney, he only showed signs of anxiety that were to be expected. Shaking, rapid heartbeat, restless nights in bed.

Nikolai did not understand why his wife was leaving him. He racked his brain every waking hour trying to uncover what he was missing—some behavior he had displayed, some complaint he kept nagging on about, anything that would explain her sudden departure from their house, and her even more sudden request for legal separation.

When it became too much for Nikolai, and after numerous failed attempts to reach his wife by phone, he decided to go looking for her so he could confront her in person. He just wanted answers, to understand why she left.

His anxiety had been getting worse over the last two weeks. His appetite was nonexistent and he had almost no energy to take care of his hygiene. This last point, he noted to himself, had led to his scalp becoming incredibly dry and itchy.

Nikolai was not sure where his wife had been staying the last few weeks, but he did know places around town she would visit regularly. He decided if he were to find his estranged wife, asking around at these places was his best jumping off point. Someone, somewhere, must be able to get him in touch with her.

First he stopped by the salon down on Park Avenue where his wife would regularly get her hair done. As he made his way there, Nikolai recalled an argument he had last winter with her about the salon. He thought she spent too much time there, too much of his money.

His wife had been standing at the fridge trying to find something to make him for dinner after his long day at work.

"Your hair never looks any different—there's no reason you should be going there every week! It's a waste of money," he had said, exasperated and at the top of his lungs. After a tireless day at work his fuse was short and it was easy for him to be set off.

"They're cleaning up my split ends, Nikki! For fucks sake how many times do I have to tell you this!" she yelled back, slamming the fridge behind her as she left the room. "Besides, I like talking to the girls there. They get me, you know? They care about what's going on in my life, unlike some ungrateful prick I know!"

She slammed the bedroom door behind her. Muffled, she yelled, "Make dinner yourself, asshole."

She yelled a lot, and slammed things a lot, Nikolai recalled. Maybe she was right, though. Maybe he hadn't paid enough attention to his wife's interests, her opinions. Maybe that's why she left him. Nikolai itched his head and continued walking.

The salon door swung open, ringing a bell to let the desk clerk know someone had just entered.

"Hello, I'm hoping to get some help with a personal matter," Nikolai began.

"Why hello there, sir, we'd be happy to—Oh, oh," the clerk began before stopping mid sentence, scrunching her nose and partly covering it with her hand.