Free The Combover by Adrián N. Bravi

into the mountains to be a hermit you have to do without everything, even your combover."
    "I haven't come to be a hermit and I don't have to do without anything, in fact I'm very fond of my hair."
    I don't know why, but since they had mentioned the wind, I decided to tell the two youngsters the story about when I married Teresa, four or five years earlier, and she and I were walking along, and two photographers were following on either side of us, along a path lined with old oak trees that led up to the restaurant where our family and friends were waiting at the entrance. It was very hot, and there wasn't a breath of wind to dry those sweaty foreheads that were now all looking at us, waiting for us to arrive. We went into the main room of the restaurant. They had given us the central table so we could see all our guests, and likewise they could see us all the time. A semi-circle of tables and we at center-stage, smiling and nodding in all directions. All was going to plan until, just as the
antipasto
was arriving, something happened which I hadn't expected and which we hadn't been told about during our prior discussions with the restaurateur. As if by magic ("And I don't rule out the possibility," I told the two youngsters, "of some concerted plot against me, though I don't have sufficient evidence"), a series of ceiling fans were switched on, arranged in such a way to ensure that everyone had a little extra air, enough to tide them over the long wait between each course (especially between the first and the second). It was a factor I hadn't taken into account when I was organizing the wedding. Nor had it occurred to my wife that any sort of problem might exist; on the contrary she had raised her arms and thanked the staff for switching on those infernal devices, exclaiming "At last!", followed by an unforgivable, "About time too."
    The fact that my combover was now in serious jeopardy, and that the whole thing had placed me in a very embarrassing situation, was a problem she completely failed to understand. Given her complete lack of responsibility, I realized there and then that our marriage was not going to be as blissful as we had imagined. ("If my wife couldn't recognize the problem, even on our wedding day," I told the youngsters, "it meant the marriage was destined to fail.") I was extremely annoyed. I already saw the outside world as a constant series of traps, but I never imagined I would be caught out like this on my own wedding day; and so, as discreetly as I could, I told one of the waiters that I had a back problem and asked if he would kindly switch off the fan that was right behind us (directed on that panoptic table
par excellence
, from which I was able to watch the blowing hair of the guests).
    "I'm sorry," said the waiter, without any particular attempt to take me seriously, "it's a centralized system: if I switch one off, they all go off."
    The whole thing seemed pretty odd, but I took it in good spirit all the same. I think I even apologized for my request. Moreover, what I was asking was clearly one of those things the restaurant had never contemplated. There again, I'd had to fight draughts all my life, so why shouldn't I do the same on my wedding day? The
antipasto
had already been put in front of me, a plate of anchovy with
salsa verde
and grilled squid, but what I was most bothered about was protecting my hair from that lively gust (useful against sweat but a scourge for everything else). Then, with a series of strategic maneuvers, hand smoothing, shifts of the head and so forth, I realized to my amazement that the breeze was not entirely unfavorable since—as I have already said—it came from behind, onto the back of the head, and as my combover was not lateral like my father's, my hair wasn't too badly affected, indeed, the air from behind helped to keep my hair in place. ("I just had to make sure I didn't catch a gust of air from the side or otherwise my combover would have shot up," I