"You found Our Royal Present!"
The King of the Cosmos deftly extricated a small, gift-wrapped box from roughly one hundred thirty thousand cubic meters of apples and bananas, pedestrians and motorbikes, swordfish and other odds and ends, and dropped a brown lump at his son's feet.
"Guess what it is!"
The Prince nudged the Royal Present with his toe. The lump was furry and too small to be a dead rat, though that would have been his first guess.
He looked up--way up--at his father. "It's very nice. Thank you."
For half a nanosecond, his father beamed down at him. Then, he frowned.
"What? Are you a milksop? Don't just stand there like a limp dishrag, put it on."
The Prince had rolled over many stiff-as-a-board dishrags on his visits to Earth, but he'd never encountered a standing, limp one. How was such a thing even possible? It must be one of those mysteries that only the King of the Cosmos could understand. He picked up the furry lump. It was a wig.
He stared at it.
"Isn’t it great?" his father asked.
The Prince stared at it some more.
"Put it on! Women love a good head of hair. You’re just the Prince of Peach Fuzz now, but soon you'll be a real ladies' man--a teaspoon-sized tiger! Rawr!"
If life were fair, the wig would have spontaneously combusted at that very moment.
But life isn't fair, and the Prince, who'd turned as red as the Space Mushroom, put on the Royal Toupee.
"That's it, my Super Suave Snippet! You look fabulous! Now, go. Go get 'em! Roll me up some maidens!"