How Cat Daddy Grew Hair

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Cat Daddy didn’t grow hair the way ordinary men do. He grew it the way shadows learn new steps—sideways, indirectly, with a certain sly elegance that made you question whether the change started inside his follicles or inside the light.

He began bald, smooth as a cue ball polished for a midnight game. But he had rhythm. And rhythm, as everyone knows, is a kind of biological spell. When he danced, the shadows behind him didn’t mimic him—they improved him. Three silhouettes swayed, corrected his posture, added a little swing to his hips, a little flare to his jacket, a little swagger to his stride. They leaned toward him like tailors, sculptors, or conspirators.

At first he thought they were just tricks of the studio lamp. But then he noticed something impossible: their outlines had hair. Not much—just ghostly contours of pompadours, silver waves, a little swoop over the forehead—but they moved like they were real.

Night after night, Cat Daddy practiced. And night after night, his shadows sprouted thicker phantom styles—B-movie villain slick-backs, smoky jazz-club quiffs, immaculate barber-shop fades. They were barbers working in negative space.

Then one evening, during a perfect cross-step, the shadows leaned in and gently returned what they’d been borrowing. A cool tingle swept across his scalp. And when he stopped dancing, there it was: a wavy, silver crown, sharp enough to slice moonlight, soft enough to hush applause.

His hair didn’t “grow.”
It arrived.
Delivered by the three silhouettes who loved his style so much, they made him complete.

From then on, whenever someone asked how he did it, Cat Daddy simply tapped the floor, nodded toward the shadows, and said:

“Baby, you don’t grow hair.
You earn it.”