Connect the dots

Steve's time was running out. He had prepared and practiced, and done his absolute best. But now he only had 5 minutes left to finish.

He had been passionate about cosmetology since he found his mother’s lipstick. He had drawn all over his face: left, right, up, down, until there was almost nothing left. He knew he had found his calling. He looked at the filled in dots on the page. Three minutes left.

He was the valedictorian of Beaufort’s Beauty Academy and yet here he was bombing the final. He had studied so hard, how could this be happening? He had spent most of the grueling, 3-hour exam resisting the temptation to peek at his classmate’s answers but his resolve was waning.

Half the things on this test were absurd anyway. Who sits in the makeup chair talking about triglyceride concentration or colloidal solids? How much time do top stylists spend talking about Eumelanin? He closed his eyes. All he needed was one or two lousy answers from Ted.

Ted wasn't willing to cooperate. Why would he be? He was at the end of his rope. On top of the fact that his Alpaca farm had just been repossessed (who knew you needed a permit for that?) now he was being quizzed by his hairdresser. This was the last straw.

And that last straw was being chewed by Betsy, the matriarch of his alpaca herd. As he gazed into Betsy's eyes, reflecting on all they'd been through, he knew that he had everything he needed right there, fancy farm or not. He was happy as a clam, or rather, an alpaca chewing hay