Albert Ohlinger strode down the second aisle of the small convenience store, irritated by the need to buy toiletries there instead of at the grocery store.  His car was in the shop and he couldn’t afford a rental—or, at least, he couldn’t justify the expense to himself—so he’d had to ride the bus to and from work that day, and there was no supermarket or drugstore between the bus stop and the house where he rented the “in-law suite” in the back.

He had squeezed the last of his shampoo onto his thinning hair that morning, thinking he had another bottle under the sink.  Then, on quickly checking after his shower, he’d realized that he had misremembered.  At the time, he’d shrugged and hadn’t been too bothered; shampoo was readily available, after all, and he often stopped at the grocery store on his way home from work.  Then, in the afternoon, waiting for the bus was enough of a novelty that the lack of shampoo had slipped his mind.

On his way home, though, when he’d seen his reflection in the bus window as the lights came on when the door opened, the sight of his bedraggled not-yet-combover had reminded him.  He’d muttered a curse upon remembering, because there was a Winn-Dixie between the office and the bus stop, and they had decent prices on various toiletries, as well as a selection that was more than good enough for a middle-aged divorcee with no social life worthy of note.

However, there was no way he was going to get off the bus, go back to that store, and then head home again.  For one thing, he wasn’t sure how late the buses ran.  That was also why he didn’t want to get off en route to visit one of the many stores the bus passed along the way.  Its course went along a fairly prosperous commercial row, but Albert couldn’t judge where there was a good store close enough to risk a quick duck-out.  Before he knew it, he was at his stop, so he got off and resigned himself to going to the little shop near the house.

If it could be considered a 7-11 competitor, it was a low-tier one.  Albert had been there quite a few times, especially back when he used to smoke.  Behind the plexiglass barrier that protected the cashiers lay a vast panoply of tobacco products, as well as papers that were nominally for hand-rolled cigarettes, but which were almost always used to contain an entirely different kind of smokable leaf.

Albert knew he would have to exert a bit of willpower to avoid buying cigarettes, but he didn’t expect to need very much.  It had been long enough since he’d quit that his residual cravings for tobacco were mostly idle ones.

The aisles of the convenience store—all four of them—were neatly laid out and were not overtly dusty, but they gave off a feel of dustiness.  There were no bright colors near the products, no signs indicating what went where or what price to expect.  All colors came from the items themselves, and the prices were indicated only by old-fashioned, lightly-inked price tags.

Albert moved along the aisle until he saw a small collection of his shampoo of choice:  Alberto VO5.  It was his favorite brand entirely because of his first name and the first letter of his last name:  Albert O.  He knew it was a silly reason to prefer a brand, but there were surely many more typical reasons for such preferences that were no less silly.

He reached for the first bottle he saw, but then noted that it was just standard VO5.  He shifted it a bit, looking at the one right behind it.  He wasn’t wearing his reading glasses, but he could nevertheless make out the words “extra body” on the second bottle, so he quickly grabbed it, as if fearing someone might come along from behind him and snatch it away.

Holding the bottle, he turned toward the front of the shop, but as he did, he saw that across from the toiletries there was a display of candy.  He thought—as he had thought before—that this was a curious combination of products for a store layout, but he guessed that in such a small store, some products had to make strange bedfellows.

He looked toward the checkout area, seeing the relatively bright colors of the many brands of cigarettes, and of cigars and cigarillos.  Maybe the urges hadn’t gotten quite as faint as he’d told himself they were.  Maybe he’d just been avoiding stores where they so openly sold tobacco products.

He decided to distract himself from that unwholesome appetite by satisfying a different one.  Compared to the mind-numbing assortment of candy in most drug stores or convenience stores, the selection here was almost Spartan.  Still, they had Hershey’s with almonds, an old standby favorite of his, so he grabbed one of those and headed toward the front of the store with his two oddly matched items.

The man behind the plexiglass was—Albert could almost have sworn—the same man who had been there the last time he’d been in the store, months ago, and at a different time of day.  This was a slightly dour-looking fellow, with a beard but no moustache, Abraham Lincoln style.  Albert gave the man a half-hearted smile, to which the man replied with an equally half-hearted nod even as Albert put his two purchases on the counter.

The man appeared not even to need to look at the tag on the candy bar, but just keyed in $2.99.  It was a lot for a regular sized candy bar, Albert thought, but he supposed that was his just desserts.  Then he groaned inwardly at his accidental pun.

The cashier looked more carefully at the shampoo bottle, evidently searching for its price tag.  He gestured to Albert to turn the bottle around, which Albert did, though as far as he could tell, there was no tag on the other side, either.

The cashier furrowed his brow, and Albert, without being asked, lifted the bottle to display its bottom, which had no tag, then tilted the top toward the cashier as well.  There was no price sticker on any of those surfaces, at least based on the cashier’s expression.

Chagrined, Albert said, “Do you want me to go look for another bottle?”  Just as he was about to turn and head back toward the shampoo shelves, assuming the answer to his own question, the man behind the counter shook his head and held up his hand.  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.  “Most of these are six ninety-nine, so…” he looked at the total so far and concluded, “…just make it ten even.”

Albert had to admit to himself, even as he was astonished at the high price of the shampoo—though he had no doubt that the man was telling the truth—that it could be nice to shop in an obviously family-owned establishment.  No one in a national chain could just round off totals for a customer, even if only by a few cents.

Instead of his credit card, which he’d been planning to use, Albert pulled out a tenner and happily slid it to the man, even as the cashier pushed a plastic bag through the same recessed gap in the plexiglass through which the bill was passing.  Albert took the bag, while the cashier took the money, and after putting the shampoo and candy in the bag and indicating that he did not need a receipt, he smiled with a bit more enthusiasm than before and left the store.

***

Albert didn’t end up eating his candy bar that night; he was too pleased with himself for resisting the tobacco temptation to feel that he needed any substitute.  Instead, after walking back to the house in the rear of which he lived, he put the candy bar in his mini-fridge and placed the shampoo in the shower before heating up a frozen dinner, watching the news, and getting ready for bed.

He must have been unusually tired from doing the unusual commute, because it was hard for him to wake up the next day.  He had to do so earlier than was his custom, precisely because of that altered commute, and when he rose from bed, he recognized some new stiffness, added on to the standard morning creakiness of his aging frame.

At least he had his shampoo.  There had been times, especially when he’d been quite young, when he’d willingly washed his hair with hand soap—nothing fancy, either, just a plain old bar of yellow Dial—and had found it tolerable.  Now, though, he would half fear that such an act would turn his remaining hair completely brittle and lead it to fall out en masse.  So, as he turned on the shower, waiting for it to warm up, he looked with minor joy at the new bottle on the corner shelf of the stall.

As soon as he began lathering up, though, he recognized that something was slightly off.  The bottle felt normal, and it popped open the same way any other bottle of VO5 he’d used, but as he poured the liquid out and applied to it his head, he recognized that it was not the usual sharp and pleasant scent of Alberto’s mainstay.

It didn’t smell bad.  Indeed, as Albert scrubbed his hair, enjoying the thick lather the shampoo produced, he thought if anything it smelled even better than usual.  It felt pleasant on his scalp, too, and not just because it was helping him feel clean.  He vaguely remembered some old shampoo commercial that made much of the fact that one could—supposedly—feel a tingling in one’s scalp when using it.  He couldn’t remember the brand, but he’d always thought the idea seemed rather disquieting.  Now, though, he was perhaps seeing the point the commercial had been trying to make.

The smell was positively invigorating.  He thought he was waking up more readily in response to it than he usually would to a double espresso—and with less consequent jitteriness as well.  As he sometimes did when too lazy to soap up a washcloth, he used the suds from his hair to wash the rest of his body, noticing the pleasant sensation, which wasn’t really like “tingling”, wherever the soap touched.

He didn’t know if VO5 had changed its formula or if he’d accidentally picked up a different version of Alberto’s shampoo, but either way, he meant to try to use this brand from now on, at least, if it turned out to keep his hair decently clean.  He wasn’t big on changing his routines for no good reason, but this was quite a nice shampoo.  It was with some reluctance that he finally rinsed his hair and body, shutting off the shower and toweling off to get dressed and brush his teeth.

When he finished dressing, he put on his reading glasses and decided to take a look at the bottle of VO5 to see what version of it he’d accidentally picked up last night, so he could look for it again next time he was in the market for a bottle.  Shaking a few drops of water off it, he brought the bottle to the better light near the sink.

He was puzzled to find that it was not his usual brand of shampoo.  The bottle looked just like VO5, and the color was right, though this shampoo seemed almost phosphorescent now that he looked at it more closely in the glare of LED bulbs.  The shape of the label and the layout were consistent with the usual Alberto VO5 shampoo, but instead of the usual two letters and a number, this one read, “V-42”.

That was odd.  He didn’t think he’d ever heard of Alberto’s making anything other than VO5, but he would have thought they wouldn’t skip from five straight up to forty-two.  There were thirty-six potential versions between those numbers, for goodness sake, and there had to be catchier ones to use.

But then he looked above the name of the product and, instead of the usual stylized, almost script-like “Alberto’s”, he saw an even more stylized but more compact brand name that puzzled him more than the number.  It read, “HoG.”

“Hog?” he said out loud to himself.  “What kind of brand is that?”

He wondered, after a few second’s thought, whether this was some competitor that had tried to make a product that seemed a lot like VO5 so people would buy it.  But he didn’t see how such a thing could ever even come to market; big companies tended to protect their trademarks viciously.  It would be liking marketing a soft drink called Boca Bola in a red can with a white swoopy stripe.  Even if it tasted better than Coke, it would be sued into oblivion almost immediately in any market in the modern world.

He shook his head, realizing that he didn’t have much time for speculation at the moment.  He had to finish getting ready for work and head to the bus stop.  Still, he meant to look into the brand and find out where it was usually sold, since he didn’t think it was one of the normal ones the convenience store carried.  Maybe they got special lots of discontinued products at cheap prices that they sold for high markups.  He hoped that wasn’t the case, because he liked this stuff, but whatever the truth was, it was something he’d just have to deal with.

He hastily finished getting ready and walked out, locking the door behind him.  He felt less grim and glum walking to the bus stop than he had the previous morning, and he didn’t think it was just because he’d already gotten into better shape after one day of a minor walk.  He passed the—currently closed—convenience store, waving to it with a smile, now glad that he’d forgotten to stop at Winn-Dixie the previous evening.

***

Work that day was pleasant enough, and a few of Albert’s coworkers complimented him on his seeming good mood.  He had to admit to himself that he did feel more perky and upbeat than usual.  He thought that was probably because he didn’t feel as stiff and creaky as he tended to feel most days.  He wondered if it was just the fact of having to walk to and from the bus that so speedily improved his physical condition.  Who would have thought it?  If that was the case, though, he was definitely going to have to keep up a walking habit once his car was fixed.  He’d not realized that he’d become so deconditioned, but it was a fact that he got very little exercise other than walking to and from his car most days.  Also, until a few months ago, he’d smoked at least a pack of cigarettes a day for many years.

During his lunch break, Albert remembered to get online with his work computer and try to find the shampoo he’d used that morning.  When he just entered “HoG”, he got the dictionary definition of the animal, some websites about Harley-Davidson motorcycles, and some pictures of pigs and wild boars and the like.  When he lengthened his search to “HoG shampoo”, he found shopping sites and ads for shampoos used to clean pigs for shows.

He didn’t think he’d ever realized that there were shows for pigs, but there apparently were, and there were numerous kinds of shampoos one could buy to clean them up.  None of them resembled the bottle he’d used on himself that morning, though—much to his relief.

When he tried looking up HoG V-42, he got pictures and posts about some apparent World War II fighting knife called, of course, the V-42.  Upon expanding the search term to “HoG V-42 shampoo”, he again got more ads and articles about cleaning pigs, and even a video of someone showing viewers “How to Wash Your Pig, Preparing for Show Day”.  That made him smile; there really were videos about almost anything you could imagine.  He fought the temptation to watch it, though, knowing it was too easy to get sucked into a time sink with such things.

He gave up on his search.  If Google didn’t find the thing pretty quickly, it was probably too obscure for anything less than a concerted effort.  He wasn’t up on the new “Chat-GPT” kind of things to ask about it, either, and anyway, he’d heard those programs tended to make things up.  He sat back in his office chair, chewing on a sandwich, and tried to think.

Could the shampoo have been someone’s prank, a fake label and brand on a fake shampoo, stealthily placed on the shelf at the convenience store?  It would explain why there had been no price tag, but otherwise it made no sense.  What kind of prank gave people a product that was at least as good as the regular one?  He’d heard of joke soap that lathered up black, but that clearly wasn’t happening to him.

He thought briefly about something else he’d heard:  that back when radioactive material was first discovered, people used to market all sorts of radioactive products, including toothpaste.  For a moment he wondered if that shampoo might be something along those lines.  It had seemed almost glow-in-the-dark when he’d looked at it, and it had given him a pleasant tingle.

But how could anyone get radioactive material in the modern world?  If they could, who would use it to make a prank shampoo?  He felt a smidgen of disquiet about the possibility, but it seemed absurd.

He supposed he would have to watch himself to see if his limited supply of hair started falling out; it would be only too obvious if other things began happening, but he thought that radiation should also give him some form of sunburn, or its equivalent.  He felt nothing of the sort on his scalp, nor anywhere else the suds had touched, which was pretty much the rest of his body.

He shrugged to himself, deciding that the radiation possibility was just not plausible.  It seemed more likely that someone had taken another brand of shampoo and had put it in a bottle that looked like VO5 and then had made up some fake labels using Photoshop and had stuck them on the bottle before slipping it onto the convenience store shelf.

If that was the case, he was disappointed, because he liked the smell of this new shampoo, and though he’d always been satisfied enough with his brand of choice, if he knew which brand the V-42 really was, he’d like to change to it.  He supposed that, if after using the whole bottle he really did decide he wanted to try to find the true brand, he could always go and look for it.

With that, he finished his lunch and went back to work, not worrying over the question anymore for the time being.

***

At the end of the day, Albert was pleased to find that he was not as exhausted as usual, and again he thought that maybe he had usually been so tired because he was so out of shape.  He definitely needed to restart some kind of fitness regimen.  He’d pretty much fallen off that wagon while he was married, and his divorce—though not particularly acrimonious—had not triggered a return to old exercise habits.

Now, though, he thought maybe he could be a bit more motivated.  He hadn’t even considering dating again, given his status as an average-looking middle-aged man, but it wouldn’t be a horrible prospect.

Indeed, as he was leaving the office, one of his coworkers asked him if he had a date that very night, since he seemed to have spruced himself up and gotten a haircut.  Albert replied in the negative but was puzzled by the suggestion that he looked as though he had done some greater-than-usual personal grooming.  He had done no such thing, of course.  He guessed just being in a decent mood changed the impression he gave off.  He must really have developed some form of “resting bitch face” most of the time.

He enjoyed the bus ride back to his house, and then, after he arrived at his stop, he went back in the convenience store and headed over to the shampoo area to see if there were any other bottles of the stuff he had gotten.  A quick look while wearing his reading glasses, with a little moving around of VO5 bottles and a glance at the various other shampoos made it clear that there were no other bottles of V-42 in the place.  He thought about asking the cashier about the new, “HoG” brand, but there were a few people waiting to check out at that time—quite a contrast from the previous night—and he decided he didn’t want to wait.  There was nothing else that he needed to buy, so it would have felt strange for him to wait in line just to ask a question.

He left the store and headed for home.  He must have worn a cheerful expression, because the few people he passed smiled and nodded at him.  That, in turn, perked him up further, so he probably looked ever more cheerful as he went along.

He got home and cooked another frozen dinner.  While he did, it occurred to him that he hadn’t even noticed the tobacco products in the convenience store this time, though he’d looked up at the cashier quite specifically.  That was a nice thing to have forgotten, and he felt rather proud of himself.

He watched some mindless TV after the evening news, then went to bed and fell asleep quite readily.

***

Albert woke up feeling well rested the next day, with hardly any stiffness or achiness.  In fact, he was so free of pain that he didn’t even realize he was free of it until he bent over to get his trousers out his dresser drawer, an act that usually gave him a twinge first thing in the morning.

When he showered, he consciously decided to use his new V-42 shampoo a bit sparingly, at least until he could figure out what brand it really was; he didn’t want to squander it and run out too soon.  It was only shampoo, of course, but it smelled very nice, and he liked it.  So, he put a smaller dollop of the amber-orange liquid in his palm before applying it to his hair, noticing before he closed the cap that the scent seemed even more prominent and pleasant than it had the day before.

Despite having used less shampoo, Albert found that his hair sudsed up nicely.  He’d been thinking that he’d have to break out the washcloth and bar soap for his body, but that turned out not to be necessary.  The lather felt invigorating on his face and arms and legs and belly—everywhere, really.  He even got a tiny bit of foam in his eye, but it didn’t really sting.  He had an initial, reflexive reaction to it, an involuntary squint, but after that, the irritation went away completely.

This led him to wonder if maybe this was a children’s shampoo, something along the lines of the old Johnson & Johnson’s “No More Tears” stuff.  It would explain a lot.  Maybe he should do a new search for such shampoos at work that day.

He barely wanted to rinse himself off as he stood there in the shower, but time was passing, and his car was still in the shop, so no dilly-dallying could be allowed.  He rinsed his body and hair and face, then got out of the shower and moved to the sink to shave.

He was surprised by how heavy his whiskers were after just one day, but that happened sometimes.  He had no idea what circumstances led to faster beard growth, but there had to be some things that could do it.

The walk to the bus stop was easier than the day before, as was the walk from his last stop to the office.  He really must have been badly out of shape for two days to have made such a difference, but he felt good enough that the realization didn’t bother him.  He just resolved again to keep walking even after his car was back.

During lunchtime that day, he got online again, but even though he tried every combination he could think of using words like “children’s shampoo”, “tearless shampoo”, “mild shampoo” along with the prior “HoG” and “V-42” and “extra body”, he found no enlightening results.  He supposed he would have to go on a more direct search and see if he could find the shampoo by scent.  Though that would entail potential embarrassment, it would probably be worth it.

More people at the office commented that he looked like he was in good spirits that day.  Indeed, his immediate supervisor, whose name was Paul, approached him at one point, looking strangely shy, and asked, “Hey, Al, have you gotten one of those makeover things or something?”

Surprised by the question, Albert said, “I…I don’t understand, what do you mean?”

“Well,” Paul said, looking unusually embarrassed, “I’ve been thinking I might want to try to go for some kind of male makeover…you know, I’m not getting any younger, and it’s hard to work out often enough to make me…physically very appealing to the wife.  I just thought, if you’d had one, it seems to have been really effective, so I might like to try one, too.”

Albert didn’t think he’d ever heard of such a thing, though he guessed it made sense that they would exist.  Feeling rather sad that he had to disappoint Paul, he said, “No, I haven’t gotten a makeover or anything.  I just…I think it’s just that I’ve gotten better sleep these last few nights.”

“Really?” Paul said, sounding both intrigued and slightly incredulous.  “Do you think that’s enough to make such a difference?  I mean…you look five years younger, honestly.”

Laughing at the obvious flattery, Albert said, “Well, I do have trouble sleeping a lot.  I guess it must be even worse than I thought if just getting a good night of sleep for one or two nights makes me look that much better.”

“I guess so,” Paul said, clearly disappointed.  He looked pensive as he replied, “I don’t think I have insomnia that bad…but there is that sleep apnea stuff, maybe I have that.  My wife says I do snore sometimes, though she’s never said it was bad.  I wonder…”

Waiting for a pause, Albert said, “Yeah, I guess maybe that could make a difference.  Whether it affects your looks or not, getting enough sleep has got to make you feel better.  I mean, I didn’t realize before, myself.  But the only other thing that’s different is that I’m trying out a new shampoo, and I don’t think that’s going to change anything but my hair…if that.”

Paul chuckled, but he looked at the top of Albert’s head and tilted his head slightly, like a dog observing some surprising thing its master had done.  Then he shrugged and sighed and said, “Well, yeah.  I mean, it does look like it’s good shampoo, ‘cause I thought you’d had a hair styling, too, but…well, I guess I’ll have to go back to the drawing board.  Sorry to bother you about such a stupid thing.”

“No worries,” Albert replied.  “I’m always willing to help if I can.”

Paul smiled somewhat half-heartedly, then went off.

***

On the way back to the bus stop that evening, Albert stopped in the Winn-Dixie that he was now glad he’d missed a few days ago.  He tried to look casual as he strolled over to the soap and shampoo aisle, but of course, the very act of trying made him feel that he must look suspicious.  He berated himself for his worry, reminding himself that it was perfectly all right for a man to look at—and even smell—shampoos to see which one he wanted.

He found the Alberto VO5, which looked just like it always did.  He located the “extra body” formulation and, glancing about as if he were a shoplifter, popped up the top to sniff it.  He figured maybe “Alberto” had changed its formula and the stuff he’d bought was a new version, and somebody had switched out the label for fun.  Alas, it was not the case.  Though the smell was fine—he’d always liked VO5’s aroma—it was just the same as always.  Likewise with the other Alberto versions.  He even smelled the conditioner combo one, but it looked utterly different, being opaque and vaguely pearly, and it was clearly not the V-42 stuff.

Having sniffed the various “Alberto” brands, he stood back and looked at the others, hoping to see if any looked similar in color.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Albert almost jumped in place when the voice came from his right side.  He’d been so engrossed in his search and thoughts that he hadn’t seen the store worker approach him.  She was quite short, and Albert honestly couldn’t tell if she was just a petite, youthful woman or perhaps a teenager working an after-school job.  She had a badge with what must have been her name on it, and it read “Bianca”.  Somehow that didn’t seem like a teenager’s name nowadays, but he supposed he could be wrong.

Then he noticed that there were tiny smile lines around the woman’s eyes, and now he figured she must be at least in her twenties, perhaps her thirties.

This assessment took only a second or so, not long enough to make things awkward.  “Ah,” Albert said.  “Well…yes, maybe.  I…you see, I usually use the Alberto VO5 shampoo, you know, like that there…” he pointed at the shampoo in question, and the woman, following his gaze, nodded.  “Anyway, a few days ago, I accidentally brought a different brand that looked a lot like Alberto.  I didn’t notice because I wasn’t wearing my reading glasses…”

Albert trailed off.  He realized something puzzling.  He wasn’t wearing his reading glasses now, and yet he’d been able easily to read the woman’s name tag and even to notice the faint “crow’s feet” around her eyes.  How was that happening?  He didn’t remember the last time he’d been able to read such tags or attributes easily, but it had to be at least five years ago.

The woman—Bianca, apparently—said, “Yes, sir?”  Albert guessed his silence had lasted a bit longer this time.

Shaking himself from the distraction he’d just experienced, Albert went on, “Ah, yes.  Sorry.  Well, anyway, I really ended up liking that new shampoo, and I was hoping to find out what brand it was so I could get some more, but…I don’t know what the name of it is, I only know that it looks a lot like the VO5.  So, well…you know, I figured I’d try to literally sniff around for it.  The scent is pretty unique.”

The woman regarded him closely, perhaps wondering if this was some kind of prank.  Albert half expected her to look around and see if he had a confederate holding a smartphone and filming them.  But finally, she said, “Okay, so, you said it’s about the same color as the VO5?”

“Yes,” Albert said.  “Maybe a little…well, not brighter, really, but more, almost luminous, I guess.  Almost like it would glow in the dark.”  Thinking back on having gone into his bathroom while the light was still off, Albert quickly added, “But it doesn’t glow in the dark, just so you know.  It just looks almost like…like those day-glow colors or whatever they are.”

The woman seemed puzzled for a moment, but then she nodded as if she’d just taken a moment to take in his point.  “Oh, okay.  I see.”  She looked at the array of shampoos on display, clearly inspecting them with some thought, and then shook her head and went on, “I don’t think we have anything that looks like that.”  She stooped a bit, apparently trying her best to get a good look, then shook her head again, repeating herself with, “Yeah, I don’t think so.  Not many shampoos are the same color as the VO5 stuff.”  She chuckled briefly as if something occurred to her, then said, without looking away from the products, “My cousin was in prison once—long story, there—and he said that the Alberto VO5 stuff is the only kind of shampoo they could get in the commissary there.  Some guys would buy some and then sort of…wash other people’s clothes with it for snacks and stuff, like, a side hustle thing.  I guess they must have some kind of exclusive contract.”

This information was a surprise to Albert, who had never had anything to do with prison or prisoners, but he guessed it wasn’t too bizarre.  “Is that so?” he asked, also looking at the shampoos and seeing nothing that looked tempting.

With a wry smirk, the woman said, “I guess it is.  It’s weird to think people get name-brand shampoos in prison.  Or at least one brand.”  Then, with a sigh, she stood back up and said, “But I don’t see anything that looks like it might be right.  Still, we don’t have a huge selection, just some of the big ones.  Maybe it’s some specialty shampoo?”

For a moment, Albert’s mind swung back to the ads for pig cleaning products he’d seen online, but he quickly realized she must be thinking of a different kind of specialty.  “You mean, like, beauty salon stuff?” he asked.

“Yeah, maybe,” she replied.  “I hate to have to send a customer to some other store, but, well, there are a lot of those beauty supply places around, and they have all sorts of things like that.  They have shampoos made for wigs and for people who dye their hair a lot—I guess it gets kind of dried out and frizzy if you do that too much or something.  Maybe your shampoo was one of those.”

Albert thought he knew the sort of place to which she was referring—stores that sold everything from nail extensions and makeup to actual wigs.  He’d obviously never had any reason to go into one himself, but maybe she was right.

“Huh,” he said.  “That’s…well, I’m not sure how comfortable I’d feel going into one of those places.”

The woman laughed, clearly getting his point.  “Well, maybe your wife could go with you or something?”

Albert chuckled.  “I think even when I was still married my wife wouldn’t want to do that.  She was…well, I guess she still is…a bit on the shy side about some things.”

The woman gave him a look he couldn’t quite grasp and said, “That’s a shame.  Well…maybe you’ll meet someone else who’ll go with you.”

It was Albert’s turn to give a wry smirk.  “Maybe,” he allowed.  “But I won’t hold my breath.”  Then, not wanting to get into that topic too much, he went on, “Well…I agree it doesn’t look like you have anything that looks like what I’m looking for, but…would it be too weird if I sniff some of these other shampoos, just to see if any of them smell like the one I have?  I mean, maybe it comes in more than one color.”

The woman shrugged.  “Sure, I don’t see why not,” she replied.  “But don’t take any seals or plastic off anything, okay?  If you do, I’m gonna have to make you buy it.”  The twinkle in her eye as she said that made him think she was not being entirely serious, but it was still something Albert didn’t want to test.

“Of course,” he said.  “No problem.  And thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” she responded.  “If you need anything else, come find me.”  Then she nodded and walked away.

Albert was impressed by the customer service he’d received, even though it hadn’t worked out.  He’d often thought of Winn-Dixie as a bare-bones supermarket, especially compared to Publix and such hipster havens as Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s.  Clearly, he’d not given it the credit it deserved.

Still, he wasn’t after groceries at the moment, though the good service “Bianca” had provided made him feel slightly guilty about that fact.  He made a mental note to shop here at least the next time he needed groceries after he had his car back.  Then, he resignedly went about the task of sniffing at the various shampoos and even conditioners that were openable without disturbing any seals, but he found nothing that even resembled the invigorating scent of his “HoG V-42” stuff at home.

He walked out of the store, embarrassed not to have bought anything, and walked to the bus stop.  He went quickly enough that he caught the same bus he would have caught even if he hadn’t stopped, and the fact that he did so with no noticeable fatigue pleased him.

He definitely needed to keep exercising once he got his car back.  It really made a difference to his health.