This is my answer to Shirley's Hair challenge   

This is my answer to Shirley's Hair challenge. Though Meg and Ben  

are my favorite characters, my muse seems to have taken a recent  

liking to Turnbull. Maybe it has something to do with watching	

Mountie Sings the Blues and two episodes of Dean's Power Play all in  

two days. Here it is, strange as it may be. 

disclaimers: Still not mine, but I love to play with them. 

Notes: Thanks to Amanda for looking it over for me once again. Feedback
can be sent to tanya@klis.com. 

A Hair Raising Experience 

by Tanya Reed 

 Constable Renfield Turnbull was dusting and whistling as he thought  

about the month to come. He would be getting more responsibility and  

the idea thrilled him. It would be his one chance to show the  

Inspector that he could be a dependable, indispensable member of her  

team. 

  

He owed it all to Constable Fraser. His grin widened as he thought  

of his hero. Turnbull figured he was the luckiest man on the face of  

the earth. Every day he got to work with the two most amazing people  

he had ever met. Neither Fraser nor Inspector Thatcher ever made  

mistakes. They knew what to do in every situation, and they remained  

calm in the face of every danger. Fraser, he was sure, could solve a  

case using just his nose, and Inspector Thatcher could make the knees  

tremble of the hardest criminal. Someday he was going to be just  

like them. 

  

The man in red's grin faded somewhat as he reflected on the reason  

for his added responsibilities. Constable Fraser was leaving. Not  

forever, of course, but for a whole month. In less than a week, he'd  

be leaving for...um, what did that television program refer to it  

as?...Ah, yes, North of 60. Turnbull would be without his wise	

guidance for a whole month while Constable Fraser took a much needed  

vacation. At least Turnbull had two days left to work with him. In  

fact, he should be arriving at the Consulate in about an hour. 

 This knowledge perked Renfield up again. The cheer bubbled up from  

his belly and he began to sing an old Tanya Tucker song: "All the  

mistakes I made before keep on coming back to hurt me more and more,  

and the love I did not show just won't let me go. Now I'm left here  

all alone, holding on to this heartache..." 

 He stopped abruptly as he heard a string of expletives floating up  

the stairs. The words were said with alarming force, and some of  

them he had never heard before. His first thought was of  

embarrassment, turning his ears and cheeks pink; his next thoughts  

were of horror. The voice spitting such scathing expressions was  

definitely feminine. Not only was it feminine, but it also belonged  

to the person Turnbull feared above all others.  

  

The flush quickly drained from his face, leaving a sickening pallor  

in its wake. His hands tightened on his duster, as if it could be  

used as a weapon against her. 

  

"Turnbull!" came the bellow, and he knew he was in trouble. 

 In the single most brave thing he'd ever done in his life, Renfield  

resisted the urge to run and barricade himself in his office. Using  

all of his willpower, he stood stock still and was waiting when she  

reached the top of the stairs. 

  

If he had been Fraser, he might have thought that she looked  

glorious and desirable with her flashing eyes and crimson stained  

cheeks. Being Turnbull, he was just scared out of his mind. 

  

The Inspector let out another stream of curses, almost causing him  

to faint in terror. As she spoke, she ripped off her jacket and  

threw it on the floor. This was so odd that concern started to edge  

out his fear. Despite his insecurities around her, she was still one  

of the two people he admired most.  

  

"Are you all right, sir?" 

  

This caused some very strong accusations about the species of  

different members of Turnbull's family. 

  

He tried again. "Are you injured, Inspector?" 

  

Inspector Thatcher clamped her mouth shut, clenching her jaw so  

tight Turnbull thought she might break her teeth. Her eyes burned  

into him and, if she were any other woman he might have thought she  

was close to tears.  

 After a moment, she took a long, shuddering breath. Pushing all of  

the anger from her face, she said coldly, "I am in need of your  

assistance, Constable." 

  

Turnbull's back stiffened automatically. "Of course, ma'am." 

 She bit her lip, then pointed to her head. Confused, Turnbull	

studied it, but didn't see anything amiss. With a sigh, the  

Inspector turned and parted the dark strands of her hair. 

 Renfield gasped loudly. "Sir..." 

 "Yes, I know, Turnbull. Can you get it out?" 

 Tentatively, the Constable reached out and touched the white stick.  

He pulled it gently, then twisted and turned it. It didn't budge. 

 "It...it doesn't seem...I mean, it's..." 

 "It's what?" she demanded. 

 Wincing, he replied, "Stuck." 

 "Well, then pull harder, Constable. If it went in, then it most  

certainly can come out." 

 Turnbull gave a slight tug. When the Inspector didn't complain, he  

pulled harder. Still the thing wouldn't budge. With determination,  

he gave it a hard yank, causing the Inspector to yelp and then start  

up her previous chain of dialogue. 

 "It...won't...come...out..."Turnbull panted. 

 Inspector Thatcher gave a sound somewhere between a groan and a  

moan. 

 "We'll have to cut it?" 

 "Yes, sir," he admitted sadly. 

 "Very well." Then, after a moment, a quiet, "Not bald?" 

 "Oh, no, ma'am," he assured her, "Just very short." 

 "It'll have to do, I suppose. And this is why I'm never having  

children." 

 Turnbull quickly led her to his office, afraid she would break out  

in another chorus of expletives. Being a Mountie, he was prepared  

for hair emergencies and kept clippers on hand. As they  

entered, he reminded himself to put the guard on. It would not do  

for the Inspector to have an accident like he had the last time he  

cut his own hair. What a disaster. Thank goodness for Stetsons! 

 Inspector Thatcher sat, looking very sad. She really did have	

beautiful hair, Turnbull thought as he prepared to cut the foreign  

object out of it. 

 To take her mind off of what he was doing, he asked, "What happened,  

Inspector?" 

 Instead of the sharp reprimand he expected, what he got was a	

tensing of her body as she heard the clippers, and then a soft voice  

saying, "I just went to pick up some gum and cough drops. I rushed  

in, and the line was quite long. The person behind me had three  

children. Two of them were misbehaving. The girl was in her arms."  

Turnbull listened attentively as he caused long tendrils of hair to fall  

at her feet. "I turned and smiled politely. The little girl grinned  

at me. I thought she liked me, but when I turned back around..." 

  

"The child had a lollipop," he said cheerfully. 

 "Not anymore, she didn't." 

 Renfield knew he was not always the brightest man, but the picture  

that came to him was clear. Not only had the child reached out and  

placed her candy in the Inspector's hair, she had also twisted and  

turned it until it was truly entangled and so close to the head it  

was almost impossible to extract. Turnbull clucked, another dark  

strand joining the pile. 

 It only took a few minutes for Turnbull to get rid of the offending  

lollipop. When he was finished, he looked at the Inspector in  

dispair. He'd had to cut it even shorter than he expected, and he  

knew she'd be angry. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't so bad,  

but she had such wonderful, soft hair. 

 "So, Turnbull," Her voice broke into his thoughts. It was grim,  

though it sounded like she was trying to take it lightly. "What's  

the verdict?" 

 "It's a very popular style, ma'am," he told her honestly, forcing  

himself to remain cheerful. Then, he did the unthinkable. Turnbull  

told a lie. "I actually like it better. It suits you and looks very  

smart." 

 He was horrified at himself, but there was no way he was going to  

tell her that he loved long hair on a woman--the way it felt, the way  

it smelled (and Inspector Thatcher's hair always smelled delicious.  

Even he, who was too afraid of her to find her attractive, had	

noticed.) To him, the longer the better, but that was definitely not  

what the Inspector needed to hear. 

 "Let me see." 

 Obediently, Turnbull went to his desk and took out a mirror. He  

studied his face in it for a moment before bringing it to Inspector  

Thatcher. It was the first time he'd faced her since he'd finished  

with the clippers. 

 She eyed the mirror as if it were a snake. He saw a flicker go over  

her face that he almost took for fear. If it weren't the  

Inspector... 

 Sadness went through him as he saw her face fall when she looked at  

her reflection. "Oh dear." 

 Then Turnbull saw one of the most amazing things he'd ever seen. A  

ripple--he didn't know how else to describe it--went over her  

features, pushing away all hints of expression. When she looked into  

his face, she looked so official that he stood at attention.  

 "Well, there we are then." She stood. "Clean up this mess,  

Constable. If you need me, I'll be in my office." 

 With that, she left. He decided to try to be even more cheerful for  

her for the next couple of days. His intuition--something people  

often thought he didn't have--told him she'd be slightly depressed  

until she got used to her new hairstyle. 

 Then, pushing it from his mind, he went to get his broom and  

dustpan. He started whistling again and did a couple of twirls.  

Soon Fraser would be there and all would be right in Turnbull's world  

once again. 

The end