Over the years since his male pattern baldness had become male total baldness, Mogey had tried all manner of contrivances to disguise his shiny noggin. He'd worn hooded jackets and cowboy hats, rubbed red pepper on his scalp before bedtime, and even once eaten a soft-boiled duck egg by the light of the full moon.Nothing worked, and eventually, Mogey always came back around to the idea of wearing a wig, an idea from which Smush tirelessly discouraged him.
"Wigs don't work in a small town," Smush would tell him.
"But why?" Mogey would ask.
"Just think about it," Smush would reply.
Mogey did think about it. Hard. But he never understood why wearing a wig would be any different in their little village than in a big city. After massaging pickle juice into his temples every night for a week without so much as a sprout of hair to show for it, Mogey had had enough. He went down to Elmer Wiggington's Hairpiece Corner and returned that very afternoon with a magnificent mane of auburn locks.
"Wigs don't work in a small town," Smush said, but this time Mogey ignored him.
That night, Mogey and Smush repaired to the Pork Barrel Classic hoedown, and who should they spot upon entering but Charlotte O'Hare, the prettiest gal in town. Mogey had been desperately in love with Charlotte for at least a dozen fortnights, but he never would've had the courage to speak to her with his old bald dome. Now, however, he went straight up to the lass, bowed, and asked respectfully for the next dance.
"Sheesh, Mogey," Charlotte O'Hare exclaimed, laughing uproariously, "that is some wig!"
"How do you know it's a wig?" Mogey asked.
"Why, I saw you yesterday. This is an awfully small town after all. I know full well that you're balder than the broad side of a barn!"
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