Saturday Fever

by jan-u-wine

Frodo Baggins was decided.
 
He quite preferred the gentle round collars that were not just the fashion in the Shire, but really the only style of shirting in all of the Farthings, be the wearer of gentle birth, or a member of the labouring classes.
 
Which was not to say that Frodo was averse to change.  No, he rather liked change, especially when it came with the comforting provision that one might always change back.
 
And so it was that he admired himself (and that was a change, as well, for never was he one apt to vain display) in the burnished brass of what passed as the smial's only mirror.
 
Hair so dark as to be almost as one with the midnight sky had been tamed from curls to quiet-tude, lay flat and straight (and short, very short) against his skull.  The ends, which usually curled and tickled at his nape, squared there, instead, just touching.....
 
a stiffened, up-raised collar, whose forefront ended in points.....
 
Points which fell over other points, and those were the......(Frodo paused, searched for the word.....more mind-twisting than Elvish, these terms...)....
 
lapels!
 
yes, those were the lapels of the coat he wore.
 
And the breeks......
 
no.
 
He corrected himself:
 
The pants.....
 
full to the floor, they were, falling tight and without buttons from hip to ankle.
 
His good hobbit feet were still there, though, riotous midnight curls curving sinuous against the hem of the pants.....
 
Yes.
 
Although he really did prefer the round collars, and his sensible hobbit breeks with their sensible silver buttons, and his lovely autumn-harvest waistcoat, there were meritorius points to this gear:
 
The stark, stars-washed-with-milk-kissed-by-snow of it brought out his eyes.
 
It was almost a pity, really, that hobbits had no hair on their chest, as men do.  It would have contrasted nicely with the several gold chains that depended from his neck.  But then, he reasoned, said hair would also have become entangled in said chains (he'd had that problem on the Quest, hadn't he, and lost many a lock of his too-long coif to that perilous necklace) and that would be most distressing.
 
No, it was better thus.....it was.......perfect,  thus.....
 
And Master Frodo Baggins, of the Third and Fourth Ages of Middle Earth,  stood quite still, absently taking in the quite startling details of his unique ensemble.......
 
He was, he matter-of-factly decided (with no nod to arrogance, for the fact of it was obvious, and Frodo was, in some ways, a pragmatist of the first water), a Vision in White.
 
AND.....
 
(his right foot pivoted neatly in four-beat syncopation, left arm arcing star-wards, right in severe juxtaposition)
 
a Dancing Machine.
 
Samwise Gamgee, Gardener and Friend Extraordinaire, chose that moment to enter the smial.  Sam, who had seen Frodo at his worst (or so he had supposed)....
 
screamed.....
 
Some while later, Frodo awoke, strangely abed in the middle of the day, and with an equally strange knot adorning his head.  Had he fallen, then?
 
He chalked it up to The Anniversary Illness and kept to his study for the greater part of the day.
 
And Samwise kept to the back garden, feeding the compost heap with the ashed remnants of the Wonderful Ice Cream Suit.