By Rob Reynolds

Julio straggled into the salon behind his mother, dangling a toy astronaut by its leg. From above, Aretha Franklin assured him she’s got what he needs. His mother’s hairdresser hugged her and steered her away. Julio climbed onto a chair in a row of empty chairs, lifted his head into a hood dryer, and heard a few faint syllables. He cocked his head, listened.

“Can you hear me?” he whispered into the cone.

One of the beauticians saw him, paused mid-curl, and sauntered over. Put her head beside his and listened.

The other beauticians hurried over, all the customers.

The talking hair dryer made the local news, attracting the interest of experts. They communicated a few words. Received a few words in reply. Slowly, through months of trial and confusion, an alien language began to be deciphered. 

The voices wanted something. What though? Their planet lacked something. Food? No. Women? Getting colder. Material goods? Warmer.

More complicated operations were attempted. A few notes of music got through. Those same notes came back. Or was that just an echo? Something about piano keys. Aquí? No, a key. A key was needed.

The experts pondered what the key could be and whether they would be able to send one. Thus the first attempts to send hard, meaning soft, substances. Something easy. Jell-O? Jelly? The aliens were ixnay on the jell-ay. 

But before that, there was the whole mix-up between soft and hard. Did they not like soft substances? No, they only had soft things on their planet. Send the hard stuff! What they wanted, evidently, was a mixture of soft and hard. 

Years of frustration, little progress. A gap ensued, a long pause, as if the alien planet was hesitant to ask. Embarrassed. Do you think…would it be possible…to send a boy?

Silence, and more silence. The infinite silence of space. Various attempts at contact drew no response. Nothing worked. The experts shouted and ripped their clothes; the mother tore at her permanent hair. Sophisticated equipment was removed. Tubes and wires.

On the afternoon of his last day on Earth, beneath a cloudless sky perfect for launch, a boy followed his mother into a hair salon, climbed onto a chair, and lifted his head into a dryer. He was on his way.